Posts Tagged With: Freewriting

DAY 29: Tuesday 12/10/14

I should feel different this morning.  More excited or relieved or something, that this is the last Mendo day, the last drive up here, ever, ever…  But I’m laced in angst and anxiety, stressed– why?  What the hell is with me this morning?  Maybe it’s the 4-shot mocha, haven’t had one of those in some time.  And I feel like I failed with this Mendo assignment, in some regards.  But then I think I’m being too hard on myself so I don’t know, I don’t know.  But I’m here, on my last day, just stuffed the Dav letter and 500-word piece in an envelope I stole from the supply cabinet in the breakroom, or LUNCHROOM, as that one sourpussed adjunct snarled at me at the beginning of the term, the transaction going “Do you mind if I eat this here?” I said, referring to my salad — “It’s the lunchroom,” the twit replied.  I’d be miserable as well if this were my base as an part-time community college instructor.  Yes, I’m done.  On so many levels I don’t have time to produce a list.  Roll sheets printed, going to offer one last word of the day for the students, well as a quote, and I’m done.  When at SRJC I should have at least 2 hours of writing time.  There, today and tonight, I just plan on checking rough drafts, sticking around for 1-on-1’s if they want, then adjourning.  Semester done– so why am I in this misty swirl of an ebb and character pulse?  Need to do my budget, for ‘Mp’ and family and house savings.  Leaving me close to nothing.  But that’s fine, I don’t need anything other than books, pen and paper.  And in this new year I’m using this goddamn thing a lot less.  Writing, writing…  In fact, tomorrow at Palooza, in my loft office, writing will be doted in the parameters of the Comp Book.  Was thinking of something now I lost it– oh yes, the Comp Book.. where the hell is it?  There, found it, buried in bag.  Budget started, already I’m thinned.  Caffeine wearing, and I won’t drag as I did the other day, Monday, morning after Dad’s party, no not today.  I’m raising my mood and I should I’m free, free from this commute and this campus and the lack of centrality and now I have more time for me, ME, time to write and run and be with little Kerouac, my ever-artisanal son!

Need a quote for the day, but by whom?  Or FROM whom…  On way back, I’ll get a picture of that one vineyard in Hopland that I always glared at carefully driving south.  Think my phone’s charged, but if not I’ll charge my camera battery in the classroom, use that rather.  So quiet down here, this bottom floor, no one else.  No full-timers, or those constant adjuncts, nothing, just me and these words.. happenstance?  Who knows, but I’ll take it.  Ride home, already looking forward to it, or the ride to SRJC I mean, hours of writing on the Kerouac floor and I don’t care if students are around me I’ll stay there anyway, observe, immerse myself evermore in studentdom.  And the mood comes back–  What is going on with me, the entanglement, the roar of dull waves in an inner oceanic tilt.  I’ll write my way through it.  Asking myself the expected and trite hallmark card-ish question: “What did I learn from this assignment, up here in Mendo, from taking it to following through with it?” Hard to write, but not to take too much to the plate, and that all ends, anything that disgruntles you will eventually be extinguished.  And my expressive senses stand more solidified on this December 10th.  And here I am, realizing I never have to come here again, ever, if I don’t want to.  And that’s one thing adjuncts don’t realize, much of the power is with us, what we say ‘yes’ to and what we refuse.  We have the druthers, just as much as them.  True, they decide if we become full-time, but if I don’t want to take your dismal developmental section and whatever o’clock I don’t have to, and there’s nothing they can do.  Well, they could not hire me back for next semester, but I’ll live, I’ll always live, and as I said on Monday my focus is Life, MY Life and my family’s.  I’m a writer and I’ll write it all out, write myself away from commutes and campuses like this.  Up term’s close, I victor.  Now, for that quote…

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Winding down from a sixth day of 3 pages.

That means 94 more.  Thinking like I always do about what I want from my professional life, and I mean complete idealism is what I’m entertaining on this couch.  No wine tonight, I need the thoughts clearer than they’ve been.  French.. I need to get back to my French studies, and completely immerse myself in the language.  That’s one thing.  Another, I want to have another writing session in that second floor of Palooza tomorrow.  And talk to Jeff, see what he has planned in the way of events.  How do you build a business like that without hitting a wall?  Have to write it out, think, and talk to him.  Tired.  And more grading to do tomorrow.  This, note, will be the last time in my life I’m in this position.  And the cold or whatever’s about me, remaining; sore throat, slight sniffle, and tired.  But tomorrow I’ll be renewed.  And writing.  And upstairs I’m walking ready for new day but also needing rest.  Conflicted not so much as I’m eager, eager for Newness and for a new book, and for December, days of no class and more runs, running during daylight and not on a treadmill as I now HAVE to do.

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10/30 journal excerpt…

…maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental or presupposing.  Maybe he owns his own business, contracts this work and does quite well.  I don’t have for– that’s at the peak, the highest and most atmospheric of my wish list.  So cheers to this man carrying that plastic can.  If that is in fact the story with him.

8:57, and I agree with my pace this morning.  About to head to the small postoffice and mail Dav’s materials, finally.  Idea for short: teacher that thinks of retiring after hearing back from an education journal, asking him to speak at a school near its office.  He accepts the invitation, speaks, then is asked to consult at that school and others nearby.  He doesn’t but wishes he would have.  Writes several lectures and talks to be given to his high school teaching colleagues.  First, at a meeting.  Average reception.. second, typed and printed and put into mailboxes.. then…  not sure where it goes from there.  Just something I’m thinking of.  Staying in journal for now.

Burrito done.  Weedblower right behind my car.  Annoying.  But I shouldn’t be writing here, truth told.  Time to mail Dav’s papers.  Where are they?…  Somewhere in that workbag of mine.  And that’s another part of teaching–or adjuncting–that I deplore, carrying that goddamn bag around.  No wonder my lower back hurts from time to time.  It’s not the running.  Now quiet.  No groundsmen around me.  Strangely I feel alone, ignored, left to my word warpings and idea slab.

9:21PM.  Just went outside to laundry room to see if clothes were ready, and no– boring, I know.  But rain is coming, and the run for tomorrow morning, around 4 or 4:15 is still on.  No wine tonight.  And no ice cream.  About to have 7UP as night’s cap.  Tomorrow night I’ll open a Lancaster, probably an SB.  More than likely will be raining while I run in the dark.  Never done so and only have one such early morning run under belt, so I have no idea what to expect maybe some odd sounds or other early runners, hope I see one or two, no way I’ll see three.  I’ll be charging phone tonight and ready for this run– nearly feel like I do the night before a race.  Honestly.  And when back in home, I’ll write, hopefully a couple hundred words in journal, maybe start a standalone from the notes I took today at Palooza.  Only had one beer, wrote at counter instead of my upstairs safehouse or office.  Need to bring Jeff a bottle of wine sometime, show him how much I appreciate his pervasive and steadfast hospitality.  Thought of starting a series of standalones rooted in that beer room, something like ‘The Palooza Pages’, or ‘Pub Sketches’, or.. ‘beer writes’.  Again, just playing with ideas at the moment.  whoso due tomorrow, basically, but I won’t make deadline.  Goddamnit!  I’ll finish editing on the night of Nov 1st, my writing retreat night, and bring to printer the next morning.  That’s what must be done for me to move on and out of wine industry grips.

7UP open.  Only taking a couple sips then I quit.  Don’t want to be in constant visit to the bathroom, so like I said, only a couple extractions.  My anterior caprice…

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9:05PM. In nook.

Day over and we had one group, Nate and I.  Nate’s words, describing over-oaked wines, “wood water”, and something else I won’t put on this log’s lappings.  Or maybe I will, as he said it to one of the group members, “Every group has an Amy.” Thought it was funny and worth writing, simply.  Sipping what’s left of the sparkling wine Alice bought the other day, relaxing me and focusing at the time same, how odd and how new, how telling.  So tomorrow, grade quick when at Mendo then print whoso issue.. edit during office hours then to next project– releasing everything, everything, each page.  Not aiming to be “prolific”.  Hate that word.  I want to be inescapable as a writer, everywhere, confrontational but unintentionally.

Tired from yesterday and today just has me in all the curvings of a knot.  Doing more research on winemakers and winemaking and what harvest does to a winemaker, the early morning and late nights and commuting– if they commute– and the stress and demand, even if they are a one man show like my friend Kaz.  2014 has been interesting, both in terms of grape character over drawing board in addition to all surrounding wiring.  And I realize life is too short, too short for worry and nonsense and anything not positive.  It’s night, and the constellations make themselves visible and talk to me, over with a repeated synergy.  And this is a product of the vintage, 2014– now I’m NOT a winemaker, but a writer, but I recognize and observe and see how they, the production team’s reacting and behaving and talking as the fruit comes, came, in– this year’s different.  And it’s enough to make me write, want to report everything, and I think with the dinner Blair and I’ll have on Saturday, 11/1, I’ll ask him about the vintage, how it made him feel– already gathering material for the next whoso issue, 1/2015.  And I forgot what else I was going to write.  I’m making this vintage my own, giving wine another chance in that I’m not letting mySelf get too stressed or at all stressed about anything.  So.. wine.. drink enjoy live love.  Right?  So what am I opening this Saturday night, when home from Blair’s?  Not sure.  I’m thinking a Lancaster.  OR one of my St. Francis artisans.  OR, one of those Washington wines I was given a while back.  Last year?  Can’t remember.

Fruit sorting.  All this new tech with winemaking.  What are my thoughts?  I don’t know.  If in the end I have a wonderful bottle I’m not too sure I care but I never forget about Artistic integrity, nor do I dismiss the integral nature of artistry, creating.  Ever.  But I look deeper into winemakers and what they do and why they make certain decisions and elect certain equipment.  Ugh, I think, now I want a glass of wine, maybe two– but no!  Tomorrow’s the writer’s early day, on the distant micro-campus.  On my way out tomorrow, Mendo, I’ll stop and take pictures of those leaves, the vines picked, see what they say to me, see how they lather my curiosity.

Tasted a PS [Petite Sirah, at lunch, Palooza]; odd nose nice grip and texture but lacking fruit.  I know it’s a Petite Sirah but it should have some subtlety and ballet about its shifts and riffs.

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6:23am and in

a fanged mood already.  You know why, you know and you know me and you know it would fracture my mood, either slightly or significantly, that review.  Mendo.  I’ll specify, why not, what do I have to lose at this point.  Downstairs in dark, mouth dry from the Zin last night and ales that encircled.  A problem with my writing that can’t be overlooked, lashings from a full-timer, a teacher, how much a writer be he I wonder.  If any point to be remembered or relished in this transaction it’s this: the writing has to happen NOW.  No more of this delay and play with certain methods and recipes or tricks– it has to be this.  And, as my wife said quite starkly last night after Mom and Dad left, “so who cares?” She’s right.  I’m not teaching there next semester or ever a-bloody-gain and it’s Mendocino…  Mendocino College.  In Ukiah.  Ukiah.  Where’s that?  I’m a writer, my own Beat has been carved at this old age 35 and I’m not budging or compromising.  My teaching’s fine, okay, but my writing cited?  I can only laugh, in the dark here with this Sahara tongue.  Water, that Perrier that Alice bought, wonderful– I’m sharpened and I have to be and with thicker skin like Kerouac with people reviewing his words his books and sharings.  I guess why I’m bothered is ‘cause I’m tired at this age; tired of being reviewed and approved and applying and the back-and-forth and the commuting and the trying.  “So stop it, stop it all,” a voice says, probably one of my characters from the novel, either Glenn or Dav, or Crystal the winemaker.  And like my sister once told me, “if you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” Or never write which is what I was drawn, my character, Mike Madigan, to do.  Would I want to be him, I ask myself, the full-timer that gave the review, be a full-time English teacher at a removed and obscure college that’s known for…?  No.  Now, if this review came from SSU, or SRJC, or even Napa when I taught there, I’d have reason to be even more hungover than I am, but this is silly–  I would deplore that role and reality, a teacher there.  “That’s where I teach,” I can’t hear myself say.  “I write, I self-published a novel and am selling it.. I wrote it how I write not how I think it’d sell, or it should be written.” There I am, me… And then further into this dream I add, “And I lead a fiction seminar at Stanford.” Ha ha, I reel to myself.  I know what I want and this, that school, isn’t part of it.  So he can sip his self-indulgent defamation and entitled mumbles up there in the mountains, on that campus that barely outsizes this condo complex.

Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t.  Yesterday, more than crazy at winery.  More of that crazy you’d expect from a rainy day where the only alternative’s to taste inside.  Wrote down one line, from a guest, not sure where he was from and I overheard him say this to Gary who was pouring right next to me at day’s end, for a little over and hour and a half: “Old vine Zins always taste too incense-y to me.” Funny thing, I somewhat agree with him and understand his idea, so what did I write it down?  I’ve never heard it put that way with those words before– well that and I didn’t write anything the whole shift into my little pages so I thought I should scribble something.  I poured my people the ’11 Cab and turned around, brandished the little pages and used the back bar for support.

Wonder what Mr. Dav is doing.  Still haven’t sent him that letter.  I’ll print it tomorrow at Mendo and send it from SRJC’s base.  Keep typing, I tell myself down here, keep typing.  6:45, and I hear Jackie upstairs, coughing a little and saying something to Alice who’s probably only wanting to sleep, poor thing.  Going up to rescue her and him and further distract myself this morning.  That review of my teaching or writing, now far past my care, gone into some sewer of dismissed ideas where it certainly belongs.  And when we meeting, this reviewer and I, I’ll be silent, no comments, I won’t waste my words or respiration or time.  I’ll just nod and tune out and leave.  And, frankly, I have to get to SRJC so he only has so much time anyway.  As much as I permit and budget.

Jack and I now, on the couch, Alice sleeping upstairs.  I’ll make sure she rests till 8.  She told me that he was kicking and nudging her all night, my poor wife.  I’m sipping the only k-cup I had left.  Well, I have those decaf doses but those are worthless at this hour, or any hour other than those close to bed.  This coffee bouncing in my rhythms, just what I needed.

I just looked at the evaluation again and it’s just plainly droll, dull, and just what I wanted now that I see my students highly approve of my performance, in fact he himself even noted that my student evals are “exceptional”, and that most obviously means more to a writer like me than what some full-timer documents from having to.  My students’ approval has value.  His thoughts are just part of a machine, a track, an intoxicant that he’ll probably read to himself and show off to the other FT-er hogs.  “Look what I did…” Pig.

Miss the rain.  Want it to come back and I want my little boy’s cold or sniffle set or whatever afflicts him to just bloody fly away.  Now he plays on the ground with a small colony of coins he took from me; everything, pennies nickels dimes even quarters.  He won’t give them back, “My money!” he reminds me.  This is what matters, him, my little Artists, and my students; that they’re pleased with my lessons and the ideas that I offer.

I need more coffee and more time to write, prep for tomorrow.  I know how tomorrow will be approached, just how, Mendo will be conducted slightly differently, meaning I will have my students there enjoy their session with even thicker pleasure entanglements both in idea and expression and the reading– and with Hemingway on the platter now.. we have only the fruitful ahead of us.  I’ll wake tomorrow morning, I’m hoping, when my mother-in-law does, before 5.  I’ve always admired that about her.  I’ll try to run tonight, just five miles, which means NO tasting today.  Nothing.  I’ll let the guests tell me how it tastes and what characters and notes they encounter in the wine.

Jackie continues to throw two footballs at me, one small, which he calls the baby, and the other which is ‘dada’.  He laughs and stresses about nothing, bothered by nothing, just enjoys his morning around me while I type and record whatever I can to make myself feel like a writer.  When Alice wakes I’ll go get us coffees and then come back to shower.  I’m realizing that the music in my life is everywhere and that’s where the truth and gems are.  Not in the routine and the documented and the official.

IDEA: write a short piece, three pages, and distribute to SRJC colleagues.. no selling, just promo, sharing, for Art’s love, Life– and I know what to do, what to write, about what.. that eval from that gudgeon full-timer only convinced me that I’m a writer, one who will by the pen his way, and won’t be in the adjunct role or anything stricture-bound or pinned by any document.  I’m on and in my own Beat.  No more being beaten.

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I should just

start an adjunct log, for other adjuncts– start a real movement, maybe I’ll then get “picked up”.  Yeah?  Or just detail my details of my barely detailed day.  Right now, I’m in the cell, the shared office they let us adjuncts use.  How generous.  And yes, I wonder what it’s like to have one of those rooms, those offices to myself.  But I’ll just keep thinking.  Had to take a break from a stack of papers ’cause the writing hurt me so horribly– ears eyes mind and stomach.  But I can’t blame the students for the ill-prescriptions of high school.  And I won’t let this cage, this cell, this shared office I’m in drive me any madder.  We adjuncts forage, but only from letting them, letting them do this to us, and letting US do this to us.  What if I said ‘no more’, that I would only write about the adjunct life, that I don’t want to do it anymore and that I want to write about it to be a voice for us, the ones who aren’t complacent and distant and self-anointed in our cozy little corners, decorated to expose our biases and agendas and be a selfish advertisement; and so many of them are like that– when you’re full-time you sigh, you exhale and you lay down, relax, and if students don’t like your ways and methods and ideas (if they offer any innovative ones, anymore in their career, or even teach, speak with sincerity and connection), then who cares.  You’re full-time.  And if you’re tenured, then fuck the world!  What can it do?  You could light the quad on fire and they can barely engage you in discussion or ask why you did it.  I have too much shape and color for such a fluff cloud.  I’ll stay an adjunct FOR the adjuncts.  For my students.  And if I’m ever full-time, then I’ll still work for them; offer to be voice for them, for us, even if I’m one, technically, of THEM.

(10/13/14)

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9/11/14.

And before you ask, yes I remember where I was.  But where I am now, watching a Mickey Mouse show with little Kerouac.  Ms. Alice timed perfectly this morning so I could get our coffees ahead of schedule, so I’m properly caffeinated, ready for day for the most part.  And it happened again last night/early this morning: that inner narrative, about the winery and the wine industry and what my functionality is in IT.  Posted to teaching blog, and I will do nothing during today’s lunch but work.  I’ll eat what Alice packed for me before my scheduled time.  And I’ll write for the novel, bring ‘Road’ with me as well as my teaching Comp Book.  Wish I were in the library.  Wonder what it’s like in there in early morning hours opposed to my usual visits, P.M.

7:42AM.  Should leave in less than ten.  See how Jackie feels about that…  “Jackie we have to go soon,” I said.

“No, five minutes.” He threw back.

Still some coffee left.  Have to start my word count log, the newest that is.  Well as my running log (written).  Don’t want to rely on some device, and that’s not writing, I want all written, ALL.  Just remembered, though, it’s set to be hot today, brutally so, possibly with three digits.  IF that’s the case, then my writing in the park plans may be perished.

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note, 7/5/14

Coffee, now shower.  Thinking about that measly check from yesterday.  I’m going there today with a predator mood.  I want blood.  I need it.  I’m the orangutan.  They, my rue.  Making it known today, I’m moving on– mentally at first, then tangibly second.  What is that wage going to do for my family?  It’s not my Beat, that’s for sure.  So much time of my life, and for what?  My hangover, not tearing at me too tyrannically at the moment.  Glad I switched over to water last night before bed.  Mocha, now, just at right, reassuring me it’ll be a good day.  Hope it’s right.  Keep saying to myself, ‘my Beat, my Beat’…  And what it is.  Thought I figured it out at the end of Spring semester.  Think now– or realize now that I’m just starting to put pieces together.

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EIGHT

6/18/14

Kerouac down for his nap, and I’m tempted to take one myself…  Class in a little under four hours, nearly all grading done.  Admirable progress today, I guess.  I mean, I’ve shocked myself a bit with it, if you should know.  Quiet in here, peace.. think I will rest my eyes for a bit.  And when I’m back up, ready for class, this semester that has so far proven to be arguably the most rewarding since my first classroom in ’06, at Chabot.

 

10:25PM.  Readying for bed.  Couldn’t just sit here, watch the news.  Another lighted session with ‘100’ group.  And now, back to that bloody tasting room.  It’s fine, I make it work for me.  No days off.  Have to plan everything.  Going to charge this device overnight.. write lesson while in Room, go to class, come home and enjoy one of the Lancasters that was delivered to the winery the other day.  Need to get to the Road, break this curse of regularity that’s lasted far too long.

 

6/19:  In classroom, 5:26p, students’ll be arriving momentarily.  Today was painful, not motivated to pour a single one-once hint of wine, nor did I want to give any tours, information.. nothing.  There was a mood there with me, one sharp, dark, and it’s still somewhat about my character but this mocha’s assisting in its removal.  Tonight I’m most certainly opening wine, some kind, more than likely Lancaster as I said in the last entry.  More poetry, more poetry…  Have to think in rhyme, and finish editing the book.  This semester’s taking all the surplus time I thought I had.  But it’s fine.. I’m teaching, writing, having incredible discussions on Gatsby, and I’m sure the books we address from here forward will be equally electric with reaction.  Could use a beer right now.. Sophie and I shared the same thought, driving around the estate, around 2 this afternoon.

 

9:07PM, back home, exhausted, not wanting to go back to the winery tomorrow, sipping this Lancaster SB, 2013.  Finally a moment to Self.  But not many.. so tired of this cramped schedule.  If you removed “the industry”, I’d have more time to write than I’d probably know what to do with.  But that’s how it always goes.  The mood from the winery today still crawls around my thoughts, motions, and unseen makeup.  I’m a wreck I feel, but that means I’m more of a writer, right?

First longer reaction paper assigned.  Will post to the teaching blog tonight– Have to check on the pizza, in oven, and get another sip of this SB…

 

10:18.. now to that Cuvée they do, the Sophia’s.  Running tomorrow, hopefully, right after work.  Ah… this is the type of wine I see mySelf sipping while on the Road, in a hotel.  My focus, straying, but I stay typing, just again reiterating my intention for the Road.. with my fiction, the stories I see all around me, but I’m not in many places.. only two, now: the tasting room and the classroom.. two rooms that dominate my swoon.  Not letting mySelf go much beyond this line, but I still thinking of what I’d write if I were in that hotel room.  I’ll be there soon.  What if tomorrow’s the day, the day I have that singularly and definitively rearranging day, the one that changes everything, the one for which I’ve been hoping since 2011, the days at ‘the box’?  We’ll see, all I can to Self say.. we’ll see…

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8:51PM.  Posted a poem earlier, which I’m quite sure I’ll use for the first poetry collection.  Two Irishmen coming into tasting room today, reminding me that I have an ‘old country’ to visit.  My sister has, recently, on a business trip, which makes me all the more envious of her travels.  So many thoughts going through my head today, while behind that bar– oh, which reminds me.. I need to get some progress logged on the next FT app [Marin]– which also reminds me, that I need inform you, reader, that I landed my first summer assignment in 5 years!  A ‘100‘ section, from 6-8:15p.  I’m again getting deeper into this professor/Literary Life.  And I hope it consumes me.  I hope it ransacks any hope of “advance” in the wine world, if there is such a thing–  And if there was, what would I care?  That world could NEVER give me the career/Life I want.  So I’m moving on.  I already have.

Feel sorry for my brother, Blair, with those mislabeled bottles, his SB.  I don’t even know how I’d react.  He’s much more a poised person than me, the crazy writer.

 

Need a break.  Blocked.  The clouds, teasing me with rain thoughts, but I know that’s all they were doing.  Foolish moisture plots…

Haven’t heard from my writer friend in a while.  Not sure I need to, anymore.  She’s hardly dependable, and her style’s underdeveloped, age-reflective, situationally-scattered.  And she’s a student–  Need to be more isolationist with these sentence trysts.  Like this morning, with all the spoken words flying through my vision’s vortexes.  The instrumentals, speaking to me in ways they never have, as I drove little Kerouac to his grandparents‘ home.

Ugh, if only I could remember all the inner voices from earlier today, from when I was behind the bar, tasting the Meritage for the eighth time, counting down day with that bloody clock.  Well, one: the Dry Creek Disaster of ’10/’11.  Why did I leave teaching for that?  It’s alright.  I’ve learned.  And I’m so thankful for that mistake, frankly.  That was the first step in truly exposing the industry’s ailments, and why I should be no part of it; how muddleheaded management is.

 

9:56PM.  With night’s cap.  Yes, another beer.  And I find myself quite tired.  Bringing my camera tomorrow, the little one if I remember.  Want to take more pictures, use them for the entries as I used to.  Something about photography that today so riled me.  Must have been that group of 4 that Jay had in the res room; the one guy with that bazooka device, snapping everything from merchandise to his friends’ lifting of glass.

The still I shot in the tank room, swirling whatever red I had spouted.. making me think of my label, my own bottles, with my name– winemaker.  Should I?  Could be an experience, a story, like today in those caves, watching that barrel fall.  And that’s really my push behind winemaking, or why I wanted to start making wine– decoding it all.  IT’s not the majesty that everyone awards, really.  This winemaker worship has to stop, as it’s us, the consumer, that decides the bottle’s fate.

(2/13/14)

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