Learned my last lesson from technology.  Somehow, my phone ate a rather lengthy verse I’d been working on over the past few days.  I don’t blame the device.  At all.  Myself, in all guilty’s grip.  Should have NEVER had a verse that good, that long, on my phone, of all places.  From now on.. no poetry on device unless it’s handwritten FIRST.

In office, pretty much ready for classes.  Rather warm outside.  Hopefully the ML in my barrels moves along like one of those Red Tail Hawks I see soaring around Kunde’s grounds.  Frankly, I’m ready for class tonight.  We’re down to the last 13 meetings, including night of finals, where they hand in their final work, revisions, what have.  Not sure if I’m opening anything tonight.  Probably not.  Becoming quite dependent upon this control, this freedom in wine’s absence.  Yes, this weekend, during my writing retreat, I will.  But not TILL then, probably.  Still shaken by this last bug’s impression.  Not sure how to sentence it, but I’m not oblivious, indifferent or dismissive.

5pm.  Not much time in Life, realizing.  But I’ve always known that.  Need to move quicker.  Getting novel over 100 pages, tonight.  There, I wrote it–typed it–so I must be serious, right?  Received notice that we adjuncts’ll be able to select our assignments on the 21st.  My time to call in?  Oh, a very encouraging 5:15pm.  I’m 3rd from list’s bottom.  Absolutely laughable.  And I am laughing, believe.  Not stressing about this at ALL.  Time to grow up, be a SEROUS writer.  Good.  I don’t want to be some parachute-skulled English instructor, or professor, spewing all my “brilliance” on writing, past masters, judging how well my students are writing when I’ve never lived a day as a REAL writer.  This is just what I need, actually.

Some odd older adjunct barged in, asking me, “Um, excuse me, are you with Lisa?”, another adjunct sharing this office.  “No,” I said.  “Then, what are you doing here?” he said.  “‘Cause I’m an English Instructor,” I answered.  His tone changed.  Apologetic, pathetic, and just annoying.  Thankfully, he wasn’t here long.  He asked, “Oh, is your name on the door?”, on one of those moronic scheduling cards they give us at semester’s beginning.  “No,” I said, “I didn’t fill one out.”

5:10pm.  Getting into character.  Will write later– write YOU later, reader.  Looking forward to the new tasting Room, tomorrow.  The feel, character, element, dynamic, total taste of its aura, its new persona…

9:56pm.  Home.  And I’m sipping my sister’s 2011 Behler Chardonnay.  Oh well.  The heaviest of her Chards, but not at all heavy.  Sipping…  Apple, cream, banana, light floral suggestion.  No oak, really.  OR butter.  Confused, almost.  Aren’t these types of Chardonnays “supposed” to be butter monsters, oak-roped?  Don’t care.  Love this one.  You know, Mom sent me an email on Chardonnay the other night, if I didn’t tell [but I think I did.. don’t know, I write too much], and I’m thinking of ditching my ’13 Merlot idea and craft a Chardonnay that no one’s tasted before.  I mean something truly artful, a bottle other winemakers will envy, that’ll make them angry finding a writer made it, and not some UC Davis graduate.  That’s what’s on my mind now, after class.

Note: driving home, air smells like summer; warm, renew.. perfect for pages, down window.

= expand on book project, “Those Around” …