11/14/13– First opening for writing, all day. Went to PC as early as I could, to grade, plan, type and print the final paper handout. From there, went to get quick haircut, as I didn’t on Tuesday, then to campus to do just what I did in Petaluma. Relished in another Poe discussion with 1A. But I’m in a Hemingway fray, again, like last semester. Opened a ’10 Cab. Only 1 glass, thus far. Taking my time. Thinking of next semester, as this one is, in my mind, all but closed. That’s how ahead of schedule, and the students, I am.
Should be editing book, contributing to my narrative, but I’m straying. So what. This is my first sitting of day. I need freedom. A FREEwrite. ‘Moveable Feast’, next semester for Critical Thinking. Then, ‘Bell Jar’. Maybe ‘This Boy’s Life’ by Tobias Wolff, for nonfiction. Had an energizing discussion with a favorite student of mine tonight, about destiny, Life, doing what’s best for Self. All Literary, all writeable. Hopefully she sees that. Sometimes I think I haven’t lived anything worth writing. But then Mom of course will respond, “What about what you went through?” She’s write– I mean, ‘right’. But it’s still too painful, and I don’t remember much of it. What I can write about now is being 34, a father, and having an expected roll. Those knowing me know to what I’m alluding. But next semester will prove the last nail in the “real world’s” coffin.
Our conversation tonight, that student and I… Not sure what to of it make. Her voice, so strong, convinced, but with a subtextual blanket of restraint, sadness. So pulling. So much respect for her, don’t think I’ll put it to page. Or at least any time soon. And that’s unlike me. Everyone’s a potential page placement. No one’s safe from my scribbles. And don’t threaten me with consequences. I. Don’t. Care.
Need another glass… More smokey than I remember. Now, the writer’s tired. I did manage to wake this morning at 5. But only to fall back into sleep. Why? Why is it so hard for me to just shake Self into creativity? Posting to teaching blog tomorrow, before I touch the estate’s pavement, parking lot.
A story. Woman winemaker. Early 30s. Traveling more than she’d wish, but she always finds something to take away from the hotels, the meetings, pourings, instruction to merchants, stores. There’s a way she wants to make wine, a way she’s convinced that certain varietals need be translated, as well as certain vineyards, terroir, region/AVA. But she’s always silenced. By them. “The Board.” Marketing goons. The number nymphs. How much longer can she do this, play their game? She has to stay professional.
Would it be “unprofessional” if she spoke up? ‘Discretion’s the better part of valor’. It’s also a way of rationalizing cowardice, she always thought. She was tired of being safe. She had enough saved.
Time for her own Room.
I know this character. Quite well. A character, no one real, so snip your suspicion. And I realize I’m jumping around quite a bit, about “topics.” But it’s quite deliberate. And my writing is stretchedly above simple “topics,” so I’m not at all bothered.
My second glass, poured. The night’s cap. A bit late, 10:43pm. But it’s only a 2nd glass. Nothing excessive. And it’s in the kitchen, again forcing the writer to separate his sips, take time, enjoy. Loving the way this Cabernet Self-transfers to its next stage. And I credit the wine for that, on its own, by ITS choice. Not anything, or anyone, else.