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.
Posts Tagged With: Freewriting
…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…
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.
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…
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.
And I’m home. Switched ResRoom for Mountain, with Dwight. Relieved, as I had a chance to enjoy views, air, quiet. Tomorrow, back in classRooms. Feel like doing nothing associated to material. In other words, only touching on themes, not necessarily analyzing texts. Announcing first formal paper, in both sections. After 100, I’ll be at a café. No nap tomorrow, no ma’am. I plan on fully enveloping mySelf in a Lost Generation’s habit, pretending I’m in Paris; with no bills, obligations, appointments, responsibilities. Oh no, I won’t be drinking.. just writing. Not grading, planning, and certainly not thinking about wine’s industry’s tightening noose.
Past entries, from recent days, posted below… Love the short story I wrote this morning in Annadel Park. Takes me back to graduate school, that one presentation I gave in Dr. Fuch’s class, on Postmodernism. My partner, Robert I think his name was, a newly-converted and very proud Buddhist, had the most ambiguous non-specific, and confusing, definitions for the theory itself that I was lost, even when giving the presentation. Fuchs was an interesting guy.. pulled from retirement to teach this class, a fiction writer, poet, in love with Alexander Pope.. had a great time in his class. Think I took three classes total with him, if you count the independent study credit, where I wrote several papers on Pope.
Sipping my night’s cap, already [8:11PM]. Want to get coffee tomorrow, for my 5-ers, so they can sip it while we watch “Midnight in Paris”, getting a sense of what Hemingway’s in love with, while he writes ‘Feast’.
Started a vignette today, writing when I could, mostly before the two mountain tours. where’s my wallet? Oh yeah.. the kitchen. That’s where it is, in my wallet, those stapled pieces of scratch paper.. the makeshift notebook that I always make. Mostly dialogue, inspired by slow days like today, in the tasting Room, where all you can do is sample wine, repeatedly. But, just so you know.. IT’S FICTION!
More compliments on my wines from co-workers. Today, on the Merlot. Maybe I should do another, for ’14. Why not? No.. dedicate your entire life to the page. If you want to write about winemaking, follow a winemaker.. use him/her as subject. Anything pulling me from page might as well be death.
You know.. the image of me at the delicatessen, eating my chicken salad, sipping a Racer (as I am now) sounds beauteous. And no, I won’t be inviting any writer friends, or anyone claiming to be a writer when in fact they only write little dialogue snippets and do nothing with them, to join this REAL writer. And I’ll stay there. No need for location change, as I did that first day of class.
And my little son, losing his littleness. Nearly 2. Was just looking at a photo album with him, of when he was only months old. His reaction was interesting. We’ve done so before, but tonight he seemed more pensive, realized. That that’s him, that he’s aging. And it’s documented.
Finally transferring all the pictures from this devil phone to computer. So many old stills of little Kerouac. I have to say, for as much criticism as I throw at visual expression, it proves legitimately valuable. I can’t believe what time has done to us all. But that’s what has been documented, I guess. Sipping what remains of the ’08 Syrah I opened night before last. Tastes more like a Pinot, frankly, now… Has to be the oxygen. Just received another compliment on my blend. But it’s from a friend. Does that count? IT’s wine. How hard is it to observe, critique? With writing, you have to be acute, precise, poignant. All these pictures I’ve taken, the computer now shuffles through… Makes me think about observation, as a concept. Need another sip of the red, this tired, tumbling red…
Should go to bed soon, actually, and change patterns, as I’m set to run again with Carmen on Monday. Will definitely be obstacle-laden, as that’s a teaching day, and I haven’t sprinted since 1/1. Changing habits, now. Tonight, my last of a bottle brush, please note.
These pictures, still “downloading”.
1/26/14. Interesting day.. only 1 mountain tour. Class tomorrow. Bought another notebook, as I accidentally left my mini Comp Book in pants pocket, along with some notes, so it could have a nice stormy challenge in the wash. Angry at Self, or was, now I let go. Sipping the only glass I’ll have tonight, the ’13 SB I last night opened.
Hemingway tomorrow morning. Setting alarm for 4:45AM, like mother-in-law. Getting grading very much done. Have to put Self in runner’s mindset tomorrow, as Carmen and I again go out for a 5+. Not nervous, as I was earlier in day.
Book, thoughts over and over, all throughout day. So much material, especially since ’09, when I started the first blog.. I can only bind something. And all those cubeNOTES, while at the box.. what am I doing? What am I waiting for? I think it’s so funny, that it took them so long to let me go, those office bunions. I wrote so much, on their dime, on the stationary that THEY provided. They had this little area, for supplies, a medium-sized, waist-level cupboard, or “office closet”, I used to call it. And I would absolutely pillage it, rob it for goods, for what the writer could use.. pens, paper, notebooks, highlighters, even paperclips. Then, on lunch, I’d go to the roasting company, write for 50-60 minutes. Oh, that bloody office. Their obsession with sales– Yes, I know that’s their gig, or what be, but I don’t have to like nor agree with their tonality, tenure, track. I find them repulsive, with how they bastardize wine’s innate intention, which is enjoyment, fun, familiarity, the ‘ease’ of it all, far as I, and many with whom I now closely roam, feel. And I know, they’ll say it’s ‘so Sonoma’, how I’m talking. And of course. That’s what Napa people always say. So I’ll topic shift, take another sip, of this SONOMA VALLEY Sauvignon Blanc…
Tomorrow morning’s class, or classes, may be a bit curt, as I’m going to put them in essay mode. And with English 5, the ones reading EH.. I want them continuing their research, finding out more about Mr. Hemingway, his habits, ways, beliefs.
Nearly bought a copy of the NYT. Would love to have a piece published in their borders. Much as I slander publishing, its world, and “being” published.. there are a few houses into which I’d like to be invited.
In kitchen’s nook. And sitting at a different side than usual. My back, not to front door. I see it. Wish there was a rain storm on the other side. My friend, ‘N.S.’, working for the JC newspaper, against a deadline tonight. He came out for one beer, but made it quite clear that he’d be in his office, in the pressroom or whatever, working towards final draft. I want deadlines, I want the rush. There’s so much I want, as a writer. And now it’s time I take.
Have another bottle of this ’13 SB in freezer, chilling. Please don’t let me be as hungover as I was this morning– wait, I don’t think I was so much hungover as I was fatigued, slow, not at all interested in giving petty repetitive tours. But I did. Only one, thankfully. When I’m back in Paris, I’ll use the journal I today bought.. I don’t see much of a long wait for my next visit to my city. So funny… Only one cent over budget for that notebook, $3.01. Hilarious.
Mom and Dad, back from SEA, today, or tonight. Think there in home, now [8:46PM]. The only way for a writer like me to revolve is to travel. I want to go to Mali, like Dad, and Egypt, like my distanced cousin, Nick. Nick.. so sad, his story. Once an Artist, now a mere mechanized commercial goon. Yes, oh yes, he’s paid well. But his soul’s a lost goat, looking for suckling, for Life. I don’t have any time to help, be some sort of savior.
Centering. Tomorrow morning, being a shepherd of sorts, bringing students coffee, as I did on that first day. But we’re only going to be there for an hour. Yeah, I know. IT’s part of the plan. I’ll put the “traveler” in the lounge, or copy room, let the other instructors have at…
The SB, still in freezer. And the pasta, still on burner. So paranoid about time.. am I going to get enough sleep, am I going to be ready for tomorrow… Will I have everything ready, perfect… Just relax! IS this any way to live, this obsession with time? No! Thinking the best way to defeat Time, my ever-enemy, is to ignore it, deny it significance.
Four years ago, I was adjuncting. And that’s all. I may have been in the wine world, but on my terms. 4. YEARS. Ago. So I guess me acknowledging this would calculate another win for time, right?
My friend, J.M., been with the estate for over 20 years, a true connection with terroir; all its conditions, fiddles, respites, wanders, contradictions. I admire him in a number of quarries; first, work ethic; second, knowledge and encompassing familiarity with the vineyards, all the blocks, micro-blocks, microclimates… And, frankly, wine as an element, before it reaches the bottle.
Tonight, just as interesting as today. How, in that I sit in a different seat in this nook, with an empty glass, waiting for this dinner to cook. Ideally, I should be asleep, now. But ideal is never the real. So here the write reels. And, I just checked on the SB, in the freezer… Nowhere near what I’d deem “ready”.
Want to post one more note on the teaching blog before I resign to rest for night. But I’m unsure. Only one more glass for the writer. With dinner.
If I were in a café on some hidden Paris street, I’d probably, in this current Literary shape, not write. I’d just observe. Have my wine. Relax. And OBSERVE. Like the Hemingway depiction in ‘Midnight in Paris’.