On my mind, wine. In my glass, not. My tasting Room, those three varietals. Friday night’s tasting, here at home, more than memorable. All the different notes of those three bottles. Not sure how I want to approach my lineup’s residents, yet. Need to do more research, taste over, over...
In this Room, my office, wrangling my focus, other than the page, these Wine Bar tracks. Calming, auditory scenery. I’m placed somewhere, a vacation before resting for tomorrow’s shift. Brought laptop today, but no Lit Lunch. Was a friend’s birthday, so we went for sushi, which didn’t dent my famished figure even microscopically. Saving money from this most recent check, for the writing’s releasing. Tomorrow, Literary Lunch, no failing. These pages, pragmatically placed. Into a BOOK, already.
Looking at the pictures from yesterday. Again. Not sure why it’s taken me this long to take notice of clustered appeal on vines, near or in harvest. This song, tells me to think more about what I write, why I write it. Interesting, this Wine Bar fantasy, its components. The music being the most importunate, sententious to me. Right there with the wine, honestly.
A re-embrace of whimsicality, spontaneity, moment-ism in my writing. Indubitable consciousness flood. That’s poetic, artistic, actual Aesthetic. Need to stop planning, worrying about coherence. I have never aimed to be a predictable writer. So, more assertive driftlessness in these paragraph pours.
Stealing Self to a beach, with this song, these final pours of my first and only beer for this oddly warm late-October night. I’m in Spain. Or Portugal. Can’t tell, all I see is water. Me, at a table, at some resort bar, sipping Albariño, writing a new book in only a handful of sittings. Rushed holiday writing. This song, its successor, keep me there. And if not, return me in sleep.