Flowering at Arista Winery, Russian River Valley, Harper’s Rest Vineyard
I bought not liquor but a sparkling lime– I mean lemon water. Not sure what I have to do, what’s on the to-do list, what’s left but I’m not caring too much as I just want to enjoy words and thoughts from yesterday; the German friends whom were speaking German to each other of course but I for certain heard a “Gerwurtztraminer” and “Riesling” in one plot of the conversation. A bit nervous about tomorrow’s classes for some reason, not sure why.. just overthinking I’m sure. When thirst becomes officially silenced then I’ll move back into the coffee.. need to be on fire tomorrow like I have been these last few lectures. Heard from SSU’s Faculty Affairs sector, confirming they have all my items for the ‘pool’ application, but I feel in a state of hebetude waiting, like I’m waiting for something that’s not really a tangible something but could be something.. the pool is only for possibility, that won’t feed my family, help pay for this house, so I go back to yesterday, a co-worker and I walking down before 11AM to open the gate, checking out the little bit of bloom in the Harper’s Rest plot and the sheep and goats, the little ones rushing to us in belief we have something for snack. The morning stayed cool, slight overcast actually giving me a bit of chilled core but flying away in little patches of thinning cloud, later.. then a beer by myself, where I took the last of day’s notes: “Quick glass after work, writing and staring at empty stein, thinking of building my business and career and direction, where precisely I’m going with this new direction, wine.. “Wine, tell me!” But no words or hints or even odd sound or nod or gesture, no glitch, nothing. Tonight, I’ll open one of my Merlots again, play with wording in my reaction, MY wine “business” or whatever it turns to be shall revolve around life & art & words. JAZZ– the luring dimensions, all of Art, wine, the paragraphs antagonized by such. Driving home now, thinking, dreaming, convinced & convicted.” And I am still, very much, here in the nook, with Miles playing for me, inculcating a new appreciation for this new estate, Pinot Noir and wine altogether, the inclusive spell I’m letting into my Now– notes all around me like the clutter from this move; this nook has become more of a bomb bunker than a place for my pagination, but I’m fine with it, all, all of it, and all this I incorporate into the morrow’s lectures, but I wonder, in this world of mine and me trying to perfect it, and with the newly-healed bond with wine and its ‘industry’, do I want to do this much more– chase assignments, hope to one day be full-time, grade papers and battle student excuses and my own attitude before class (occasional)? I only think of this new house, and my children, my wife, and me still playing the adjunct game, being led by them– and this is too interesting as the wine industry has made it clear, several times, that it doesn’t care for my kind– the Beat writer, the Freethinker, the Artist and one in search of trued centeredness and sovereignty and Wellness, valuing my own ideas. So why the switch, why the now-opposition to its own practice and prior visibility? I don’t know if I need an answer right away but at some point would be lovely. Think I’m ready for the coffee and more thinking, more fascinating of being on the Road, pouring wine and meeting new characters and writing about it all in my room, wherever I am, the travel and its situational atticisms making me more a writer, more the writer I’ve always hoped I’d be, and that won’t happen if the system which imprisons us as adjuncts keeps me in its soggy circle.
Starting coffee, it now brews and falls into its temporary cup, and yesterday again, the sight of the buds breaking, blooming, building themselves for the vintage and there was a reason I saw that, right? There has to be.. so who or what’s the reasoner, you ask (or Dad, my prodigious Philosophy Major friend, would). Not sure if there’s a reasonER, but it’s very much reasoned in me that there’s a purpose for those little anthers meeting my eyes yesterday morning, and that’s all I’m begging from mySelf, the question, that the question has relevance, and if it’s not a question then an excavation of the idea itself; me, walking to open the gate, looking at the vines from habit or slivers of curiosity, and seeing ‘break’. Perhaps, the Story suggests that soon I break, I bloom, I in my character come to formidable fruition. Maybe. And I feel new brio in my typings, just here with this coffee in the nook and with my jazz. And those dreams last night obviously warning me away from technology and social media and anything with electricity.. so why am I here on this devil button slab? The immediacy, it has to be, like Amber said.. but that’s no excuse! I need to get a typewriter.. no, they break.. shit, I’m everywhere in my thoughts today, and I blame– why do I have to blame.. center yourself in the session. This is what all adjuncts go through, and my efflorescence if you would, will, get me away from this shackle-set, and have me like the vines, coming alive toward inevitable fruition. And from an artist’s scope, I envy the vines. They will be bound, released, published and sold, see meaningful fruition. Each vintage for a vineyard is a novel– hmm, now I think further, and know I have to make wine, two barrels of Pinot, which would be a little over two tons (?). More pictures from yesterday in the Room involve just wine, an ounce if that in a bowl, and laid horizontally so I could roll the glass and appreciate (not examine) the texture and precise shade and tint of the juice.. the wine tasted far more intricate and vocal, much more Literary in its sensory sinews than shifts prior. “Shifts”… My days there are hardly shifts, more lessons for the writer, generous opportunities from the proprietors allowing the writer to gather material, well as sell bottles he believes in– and not so much sell but share passion for. And I always tell such, “I’m not a salesman, I just share my passion for the wine.” And that’s not a pitch, either. It’s transparent disclosure of my character. But what I can’t ignore, is the supportive narrative and nature of the winery’s chief holders. They seem to embolden me knowingly and provoke my prose. And again, this can only be Truth. I like to think I’m quite cunning when it comes to character consideration and accuracy in analysis, and I feel no oddity or incongruent nods or shakes, no gladhanding from these chaps. And I’m relieved.
Drat! Already over a thousand. How did that happen? Now I do want to blame something.. the coffee! Just noticed a mosquito bite on my right arm, just under elbow on way to triceps, shoulder. Makes me think again of the day, the walks around the property; in the water gardens and the lawns, driveway, field where the sheep and goats wander, then the Two Birds Vineyard where I was at the end of the day, shooting a short video to post but that’s social media so I won’t build more in that recollection.
Knee left indeed hurt while attempting to run today at gym, so I went to a form weights session for the first time in over a year, then swam. I sense a new character in the writer, and a new love for Wellness, and the new probability promised by those breaking buds yesterday morning. I have to get back there soon, well I’ll be there Wednesday but I wish sooner. And when can I say that’s ever happened to me in “the industry”? Never. “The winery I’ve always wanted,” as I’ve told Mom and shared with one of the owners yesterday in a brief chat we held about my writing on the ’13 RRV Pinot. This laptop now, threatens to die, run out of juice and I’m just getting into my role and rant, I feel, the adjunct disgruntled but with options, and I’ve always felt so grateful for my choices, in wine of course, as many other adjuncts either don’t have alternatives or other interests, OR they think themselves too good or bluntly too smart to get a job, like at a winery or anywhere. That’s what I understand, and empathize with, but will never be. I know I have to have a job, but I also reserve the fortitude to refuse a job I’m certain I won’t enjoy. Had too many of those, as you know, and many in the wine world. SO, I find myself happy, and I feel strange. Isn’t that diacritic, and a bit idiosyncratic of me. Yes! But that’s Truth, that’s what I’m feeling and what dominates my character’s scope at this table, this table and all items atop that are soon to me shuffled to the new house, the Autumn Walk base. Love the name of our new street. Autumn, my favorite season. Walk, the idea and consistency of a saunter versus a run, something rushed and sped. This is what the story intends and I’ll sip wine in the backyard and have my little pages at ready that first day, night, our first true pageset on the new street.
Back from errand. Tomorrow, after 1B, thinking of going to taste, somewhere. Where. What. Notes, new stories flying around my head but can’t catch them. Tomorrow I will. I have to. And be unlike anyone else writing about wine– or the trends of what to sip.. what if I just order a wine from curiosity’s tavern and start with my jots? No pattern. Not here. Not with me.