Now in the adjunct cell of Solano and I just can’t motivate myself as I’d want, realizing that now in this stage of my story I only want to be surrounded by wine and wine artifacts, scents, scenes and sensory strings. And not just for the sake of alliteration I note that, but truth and noting the realization this morning. I type without thinking, not caring what comes out as these colleges that profess to be so accepting and supportive and community-oriented care nothing about the adjunct. So at this stage in my story I have to walk away and approach wine like I haven’t anything else in my day, not baseball when younger, not Literary studies when at SSU or Hayward/East Bay. This is a new stage for me, I thought while on Napa Road, passing Scribe tempted to pull over and take some pictures, but didn’t as Time was pushing me to just stay on 12 and get to Solano, driving nearly more than the class’ duration– in fact, yes, the class does not match the drive time. Now, anyone, any reader reading this must recognize that as a problem or at least something to think about especially if you’re considering doing any freeway flying.
I’m starting to wake more, after finishing the last of the 4-shot mocha in the parking lot, here, right after pulling my bag from the trunk. Going to type here in this session and sitting till 11, where I’ll walk over to the overcrowded cafeteria which reminds me more of a prison scene rather than somewhere for the writing adjunct to snatch a snack, get my coffee then come back here and quickly grade the papers.. for 370, the class I “teach” here. I breath deep and wish I wasn’t here, but then am so glad I’m here with these other adjuncts who don’t write, or at least aren’t now, bogged and tied and hogtied by the papers they have to grade, lessons into which they’ll pour the whole of their hearts but less than 50% of the class will be engaged. Sad, education in today’s thought climate. But I can do nothing, I realize, so I move on, wouldn’t call it surrendering just a dismissal of sorts.
I stop to ask myself what I want from today… Well….. Some wine content. Not wine tasting or drinking, at all really, just more content, more for the story and these blogging efforts and putting the story and conversation out there, all wine and wine dreams and tastes of this reality here in Sonoma.. the family business– oh! That new tasting room in Kenwood, should stop by, and possibly even the old Kenwood winery, just stop in to see how they’d react, see what they’re pouring, see if theres any content there for me, for this, the story and the continued curiosity of wine and its whirl, whirlwind, whirling rile that always pushes me to put its pulse on page.
Thinking I may have to do a bit of free “guest blogging” to get my name out there. Just an idea, but anything to keep me from this, out of this adjunct’d pattern. We’re just added junk, it feels. Look how they corral us like this, in here, this shared “office” which is nothing more than a pen for us, like crowded cows or mice in an aquarium for the passing students to look at, on display the academia zoo. This is what I turn my back to. And why wine, then, for the rest of my life as I proclaim? Because it’s life, it’s joy outside in the vineyard with family and at the dinner table with the bottle open. There’s no bitterness or bullying.. only the color of the wine in the glass and the stories perpetuated joyfully.. the entrepreneurial creativity of it all. NONE of that is here.. NONE. But, more ideas precipitate to my Personhood on wine, and wine’s presence.. the glass on the table with me. How I wish I had one with me here in this adjunct’s hole with these other drones around me.. can you imagine the looks on their masks? If I pulled some bottle from my bag, like that St. Francis Merlot that I bought the other day from Ronnie, and just poured it into a paper cup or emptied water bottle? Oh.. one day maybe, if these full-timer pigs and USELESS trustee members keep pushing me. But they won’t. They won’t have a chance to. No.. I’ll be gone before that happens. My mood rises like this morning’s wine country skybulb over tired vines, no fruit only stares from Highway 12 commuters like me.
Have a piece in mind to submit to a ‘big time’ blog. Have to edit it over once more.. wife just texted her tired writing husband, parents coming up for inspection of new home, may bring over dinner.. good! A wine-pairing opportunity, not everything from notes aligned to what echoes back and forth between wine and food, no matter where it’s from, in fact the more pedestrian the better.
I’m struck by a wine opinion piece but I have to get this vent to a thousand words, my inner obsessively compulsively actually frantic frame and form of fruition fortitude. 10:44, so 16 minutes left before having to get coffee. Excited about submitting the article I wrote the other night about today’s wine, the corporate promulgate bottles versus the small family ops that show more life and story and what we are all after– the connection between winery and what we sip. You don’t get that from Mondavi, or Gallo, the Terlatos.
Ugh– time just passes me and makes me chase it. Bastard. Well, I write on and edit minimally if at all, no not at all so you see feel and read hear here the urgency in me, this adjunct in this pen of class beggars, always looking for that next section, that next gig.. “feast or famine” on adjunct described it to me long ago, much like a real estate agent.. well, that’s why I’m a writer. I’d much rather be living by my pen and these keys than in this context and consistency, going from semester to semester with a family to support. I know I’ll always have subject matter, content to produce, something to report and a story to tell, alongside wine. So, as I said, the back turns. The story develops. I grow as a character.