Retiring. Done with thousand words. Now, rest. Actually enjoying my night. Hope it rains. J’ai toujours aimé la pluie…
8:37am. Morning next. Watching little Kerouac, while I plan for tonight’s classes. In the “sweet 16” stretch, the last sixteen sessions. I know it’s a unimaginative, pedestrian, but you get the idea. Also want to outline assignments outstanding. Next semester, I’m going to have even less conventional assignments. Probably only 4 essays, journal work, a couple typed reactions. And that’s it. Just as I don’t want them drowned in assignments, I don’t want to be smothered with grading. I deserve to enjoy mySelf, too.
Would call this NewJournalism a new project per se, especially with all these French winks, written whistles, but it’s certainly a new direction for me. The one that’ll help get me on the Road, into my Office, back to my city. Watching Jack play with the phone over on the red table, by the TV’s armoire. He yells at it, as the operator tells him that if he’d like to make a call, he needs to hang up and try again. The little Artists doesn’t seem to care for her counsel, or octave, instructional modulation.
Now he place with my cell. Good. I hope he breaks it, killing Siri, or whatever its name is. Think I may already have tonight’s plan done. Now I just need to grade. I do want to write a letter for both classes, a “Literary Letter” as I have it in the syllabus. Want to emphasize time, of course, how the semester’s closing, but also how now’s the time to truly demonstrate ownership of their writings, interpretations.
Jack, now over by me. He’s distracted by the French Café tracks spilling from phone. Imagining we’re all in Paris, this new Madigan family. I’m scheduled to be in my office between 1p and 1:30. Need to step aways from keyboard, as he’s annoyed now with me, for my typing, diverted glare. He sits on the ground, with the gadget, listening to a Thievery Corporation song. Interesting how he reacts to everything. “Meu Destino,” the title he stares at.
Running out of steam, these two morning cups, not pushing as hard as I needed them to.
“Are there any Syrahs being poured today?” the man asked
“We sold out of our last one, actually. The ’10 should be released later this year,” I said.
“What about the ’09?”
“We didn’t make one in ’09, sorry.”
“Oh. That’s weird,” he said, then walking away from the bar, back to the parking lot.
“THAT’s weird,” I thought.
Allergies still attacking. Just want to go home, relax, have a glass of Chardonnay, of all varietals. Why Chard? Must be the allergies getting into my brain or something. I never drink Chardonnay. Ever.
What was that guy’s problem? Does he love Syrah that much, or did he just want to be a vintage snob, like that one girl who came in a couple months ago and criticized us for not having any–well, only one–’10 on the lineup. And she was from North Dakota or some forgettable state like that. What does she know about wine, I remember thinking. But that’s not fair, I realized. It’s not the state, it’s the flap-dragons that slime out from the husky borders. -3/26/13