So I’ve reached it. My end. Tomorrow, the full transition, ideologically, into writing, the Literary, teaching. Wine, tomorrow, greeted by its execution. And then, me free. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be getting from this, any of this in wine’s world. Yes, I know, the steady check (which is bloody insulting, in its best stature) and benefits. But what else, for ME? Not even worth talking about. No more.
Tomorrow afternoon, going to adjunct cell. Working till 5-something. Finishing the Marin app, then doing some grading, then writing of Wednesday’s meetings. Or lectures. Hate that word, to be honest [“lectures”]. I’m looking to bend my consciousness a bit, tonight, with Blair’s wine, the SB. Or what remains of it. May open that below-average Cab I took home tonight, from work. My act of its consumption, with such indifference, punctuates my plight; wine is consumed, then gone. How is it as significant as they boast?
11:06PM. Intentionally trivializing this wine. Drinking it for the pleasure of so. So what do I mean? These wine rods always seek to overanalyze, over-explain. But tonight, I’m letting go. Of everything except my students, my writings. Met a woman today, in the Res Room, where I was stationed, that used to be a teacher. She spoke of all the passion she had for her position; how proud she was to tell people what she did. But devilish management drove her away, of course. Now, she holds the same degree of self-regard, for her holistic/massage practice. Was quite reviving, talking with her.
So interesting, how when I tell people I teach at the college level, they nearly immediately ask me if ‘this is my part-time job’. I have to be honest, forward that it’s just the opposite. But that’s changing. This year. Before I’m 35.
Right now, Mom & Dad enjoy our home in Sunriver. Tomorrow morning, there, looking out at that snow, past the deck, I’d write as I did in ’09. But in vignette. From the random birds, eagles, squirrels, bears, dear; snow falling from branches; how the wind always makes a point of pushing the white dust from roofs; trees, plants, the few cars that pass. I’m set, when my publication liftoff, to stay a night or three there, if doing readings in OR; waking in the morning to coffee, lots of, writing, napping, waking again to write, then to that lodge, where I could write to a nice bulbous glass of Cabernet [as I now be], setting self in a profitable session, waking the next morning to re-read, minimally edit, print, sell… It has to be that simple for this writer. And that’s what winemakers, wine obsessives, can’t grasp. Our succinct strokes bother them. They want to complicate, always. And I’ll never get it– How free we are as writers, educators, thinkers, bothers them so seismically. I love it. I’m so separated from their rants; They amuse me, especially the manager types, how seriously they take their jobs– clownish, stage for us, material, pages.. thank you, toiling toad. This wine, the one I’m sipping: meaningless. My reflection is minimal, if at all placed. Only evidence would be this defamation, within which I’m in control. And I know that’d bother “managers”, or ownership. Now I just want to read, study, prepare for Wednesday’s presentation, especially after the way Nadav, “Dav”, described my teaching style; how engaging, passionate, demanding it is. I felt honored– no, humbled– no, motived– I don’t know what, by what he said. I know where my heart is. And it’s obvious that some in wine’s industry resent that my love is outside its world. Wine’s “industry” is a needled edge of a cult, targeting the freethinkers, anyone gauling to question a single cent of its scaffolding. Well, I won’t stop. Wine’s world is humorous, at best. And I’m drinking tonight for freethinkers; for the Emerson’s, for the Poe’s, for the Dan Madigan’s. Enough, enough. Where’s my glass, devil?