All wine off the estate, much of it in car. Hope it doesn’t get broken into. That’s what’s on mind, currently. Opened another bottle of the cuvée today, poured it for co-workers. They all very much like it, especially one, going back for another pour, another… Sam’s and my beer looking quite well, with primary fermentation in full yodel. Looking forward to the finished face of our effort. Learned more working with him last night that I did, for the most part, with my winemaking cronies. But there’s no blame, not even a drop, as they’re incomprehensibly busy with all their barrels, tanks. I don’t how they do it, honestly. I wouldn’t sleep– Now I think of all the different locations my writings have gone, how many different projects, many of which I failed to finish. But that stops with this Spring ’14 term. This is the MS that carves my final shape…
Sipping a Racer five, presently. May open a Merlot, the one I made, just to see how it tastes here, in domicile. This book, its message, or thesis, quite clear, as I NOW see it.. but that could change, right? The account is still being composed. And in order for there to be true story, there must be a death. And that will be this log, the bottled ox.. but not till year’s end, after, well after, the semester ceases. And that’s fine.
Tomorrow I’ll finish the FT app, so I have something to shotgun to any college looking for lecturers (1); then, grade the English 5 pieces submitted Thursday (2); prepare for meeting with student, Wednesday (3); write, get some poetry ready to print (4); lectures, write more lectures (5)– Don’t want to plan too much, as that’s when I find Self getting into trouble, or failing, not getting a thing fully fermented.
First priority: peddling this Poetry. So now, off blog. Merlot, on counter, ready for opening. Should write writer friend, at some point tonight. Don’t want to reschedule with her, but I may have to, for meeting with student. She’ll understand. First time this has happened in a while– won’t go into it, student wanting to know more about grade last term, when it’s more than unequivocal. This is the part of instruction I dislike most. But I’m ready, and, again, there’s no argument to be had.
Weather, again, tallying no rain. Where the bloody bull is it? I do want to make a wine in ’14, but how will I if yields are so chintzy. Don’t worry about that, focus on the writing. Nothing to the side of this laptop.. no wine, artisanal beer. And that’s profitable, at first. But then, I need unique bend.
This consolidation, of all, proving well. But I need to be back in the classroom. Yes, I’m thankful for the day off, tomorrow. But, it disrupts rhythm. Opening wine, as I need to. Check on how my creation’s doing, only 3 days in its new home.
9:48PM. Merlot poured. About to post to maddenedread, check in with students. Just sent response email to student verifying assignment (Eng 100). First sip… soft, floral, light, musical, artsy, knowledgable, quite flirtatious. Want to return to the Poe pieces I read last semester.. the lectures I wrote, especially that little typing binge I went through with ‘MS/Bottle’. How Poe wrote… Want to duplicate it, or try.. but then don’t. How odd, oddly beautiful. Need to hit a thousand words tonight, with this Merlot I made. I remember the day Jerry called me in the tasting Room, told me to come out, “We’re pickin’ your grapes!” he said. I rushed out there, rode on the pulled gondola, taking out leaves, tasting what grapes I’ll allow Self.
Looking through the collection I’ll be using for Eng 100 this semester. Not finding too many pieces that control or command me, my interests. Not too much a problem, as I’ll lecture on what I can; urging students to focus on the piece, what they acknowledge, what they observe(!), even if it’s portions they don’t that much care for.
Please don’t let anyone break into the Passat, take my wines… I’ll drop off the cases at Mom & Dad’s at some point tomorrow. There’s another item to add…
With empty glass. I hate that. The next, the night’s cap. Why am I just tumbling in this horrible prose? Why can’t I focus on poem? Why, I need this meditation. That, and the KnoComp’s in the car. But I’m bored with this– the lectures, the travels.. the observations, page captures on campus, with the students. That room, where drone put a glass to their egotist lips, dead. It’s corpse’d. And I don’t, won’t, miss it.
I know just how I’ll start the Wednesday sessions. But won’t reveal it here. Meaning, I don’t want to write it. Not yet. Want to see how it, the moment, writes itself.
My glass– loud, colorful, antagonistic in its appearance, lure, allure–in kitchen, waiting. And I’m here on the couch, thinking about my book, books– every bloody thing I’ve written. And not bound.. not bottled. Why? People seem to like this wine, and I didn’t put even a sliver of the energy into either of these bottles as I have even a paragraph from past.
Just back from a kitchen visit. Think tonight’s one of those nights, where change results. What, I’m not just yet certain. But there will be fruit, indeed. Yes, I will be better after tonight. A better writer, better father, husband, teacher, thinker– Human. And the fridge erupts, just as it does during my Barleycorn sessions. And I think, more, about class, what the students might say from the assigned readings. Now of course, I have special interest in the 5-ers, with their ‘Moveable Feast’ explorations, but I anticipate ravishing conversations with both classes. And that’s what keeps this writer alive, typing, moving, observing characters.. capturing them. For me. For you, readers of this page, and the others.
Closing the session, looking at my son’s toys that surround me like a motivated militia. Have to send my poems out into the world, like their own invading source.. but maybe that’s the wrong language to use. And now, I feel my own wine catching me. How interesting, me fighting off the ripples from my own creation. There has to be a story there, somewhere. There’s a story everywhere, in everything. This pint glass, left.. won at my first 10k, Kenwood. How proud I felt after that race, how I carried that pride, eager to throw it around when I showed at work. Now, that glass.. empty. I could fill it, but won’t. There’s one for me. In the kitchen. With that wine that challenges me. Still think thats funny, that I’m engaged with my own vino, as I leap into the Literary– auncel.