And I’m home. Switched ResRoom for Mountain, with Dwight. Relieved, as I had a chance to enjoy views, air, quiet. Tomorrow, back in classRooms. Feel like doing nothing associated to material. In other words, only touching on themes, not necessarily analyzing texts. Announcing first formal paper, in both sections. After 100, I’ll be at a café. No nap tomorrow, no ma’am. I plan on fully enveloping mySelf in a Lost Generation’s habit, pretending I’m in Paris; with no bills, obligations, appointments, responsibilities. Oh no, I won’t be drinking.. just writing. Not grading, planning, and certainly not thinking about wine’s industry’s tightening noose.
Past entries, from recent days, posted below… Love the short story I wrote this morning in Annadel Park. Takes me back to graduate school, that one presentation I gave in Dr. Fuch’s class, on Postmodernism. My partner, Robert I think his name was, a newly-converted and very proud Buddhist, had the most ambiguous non-specific, and confusing, definitions for the theory itself that I was lost, even when giving the presentation. Fuchs was an interesting guy.. pulled from retirement to teach this class, a fiction writer, poet, in love with Alexander Pope.. had a great time in his class. Think I took three classes total with him, if you count the independent study credit, where I wrote several papers on Pope.
Sipping my night’s cap, already [8:11PM]. Want to get coffee tomorrow, for my 5-ers, so they can sip it while we watch “Midnight in Paris”, getting a sense of what Hemingway’s in love with, while he writes ‘Feast’.
Started a vignette today, writing when I could, mostly before the two mountain tours. where’s my wallet? Oh yeah.. the kitchen. That’s where it is, in my wallet, those stapled pieces of scratch paper.. the makeshift notebook that I always make. Mostly dialogue, inspired by slow days like today, in the tasting Room, where all you can do is sample wine, repeatedly. But, just so you know.. IT’S FICTION!
More compliments on my wines from co-workers. Today, on the Merlot. Maybe I should do another, for ’14. Why not? No.. dedicate your entire life to the page. If you want to write about winemaking, follow a winemaker.. use him/her as subject. Anything pulling me from page might as well be death.
You know.. the image of me at the delicatessen, eating my chicken salad, sipping a Racer (as I am now) sounds beauteous. And no, I won’t be inviting any writer friends, or anyone claiming to be a writer when in fact they only write little dialogue snippets and do nothing with them, to join this REAL writer. And I’ll stay there. No need for location change, as I did that first day of class.
And my little son, losing his littleness. Nearly 2. Was just looking at a photo album with him, of when he was only months old. His reaction was interesting. We’ve done so before, but tonight he seemed more pensive, realized. That that’s him, that he’s aging. And it’s documented.
Finally transferring all the pictures from this devil phone to computer. So many old stills of little Kerouac. I have to say, for as much criticism as I throw at visual expression, it proves legitimately valuable. I can’t believe what time has done to us all. But that’s what has been documented, I guess. Sipping what remains of the ’08 Syrah I opened night before last. Tastes more like a Pinot, frankly, now… Has to be the oxygen. Just received another compliment on my blend. But it’s from a friend. Does that count? IT’s wine. How hard is it to observe, critique? With writing, you have to be acute, precise, poignant. All these pictures I’ve taken, the computer now shuffles through… Makes me think about observation, as a concept. Need another sip of the red, this tired, tumbling red…
Should go to bed soon, actually, and change patterns, as I’m set to run again with Carmen on Monday. Will definitely be obstacle-laden, as that’s a teaching day, and I haven’t sprinted since 1/1. Changing habits, now. Tonight, my last of a bottle brush, please note.
These pictures, still “downloading”.
1/26/14. Interesting day.. only 1 mountain tour. Class tomorrow. Bought another notebook, as I accidentally left my mini Comp Book in pants pocket, along with some notes, so it could have a nice stormy challenge in the wash. Angry at Self, or was, now I let go. Sipping the only glass I’ll have tonight, the ’13 SB I last night opened.
Hemingway tomorrow morning. Setting alarm for 4:45AM, like mother-in-law. Getting grading very much done. Have to put Self in runner’s mindset tomorrow, as Carmen and I again go out for a 5+. Not nervous, as I was earlier in day.
Book, thoughts over and over, all throughout day. So much material, especially since ’09, when I started the first blog.. I can only bind something. And all those cubeNOTES, while at the box.. what am I doing? What am I waiting for? I think it’s so funny, that it took them so long to let me go, those office bunions. I wrote so much, on their dime, on the stationary that THEY provided. They had this little area, for supplies, a medium-sized, waist-level cupboard, or “office closet”, I used to call it. And I would absolutely pillage it, rob it for goods, for what the writer could use.. pens, paper, notebooks, highlighters, even paperclips. Then, on lunch, I’d go to the roasting company, write for 50-60 minutes. Oh, that bloody office. Their obsession with sales– Yes, I know that’s their gig, or what be, but I don’t have to like nor agree with their tonality, tenure, track. I find them repulsive, with how they bastardize wine’s innate intention, which is enjoyment, fun, familiarity, the ‘ease’ of it all, far as I, and many with whom I now closely roam, feel. And I know, they’ll say it’s ‘so Sonoma’, how I’m talking. And of course. That’s what Napa people always say. So I’ll topic shift, take another sip, of this SONOMA VALLEY Sauvignon Blanc…
Tomorrow morning’s class, or classes, may be a bit curt, as I’m going to put them in essay mode. And with English 5, the ones reading EH.. I want them continuing their research, finding out more about Mr. Hemingway, his habits, ways, beliefs.
Nearly bought a copy of the NYT. Would love to have a piece published in their borders. Much as I slander publishing, its world, and “being” published.. there are a few houses into which I’d like to be invited.
In kitchen’s nook. And sitting at a different side than usual. My back, not to front door. I see it. Wish there was a rain storm on the other side. My friend, ‘N.S.’, working for the JC newspaper, against a deadline tonight. He came out for one beer, but made it quite clear that he’d be in his office, in the pressroom or whatever, working towards final draft. I want deadlines, I want the rush. There’s so much I want, as a writer. And now it’s time I take.
Have another bottle of this ’13 SB in freezer, chilling. Please don’t let me be as hungover as I was this morning– wait, I don’t think I was so much hungover as I was fatigued, slow, not at all interested in giving petty repetitive tours. But I did. Only one, thankfully. When I’m back in Paris, I’ll use the journal I today bought.. I don’t see much of a long wait for my next visit to my city. So funny… Only one cent over budget for that notebook, $3.01. Hilarious.
Mom and Dad, back from SEA, today, or tonight. Think there in home, now [8:46PM]. The only way for a writer like me to revolve is to travel. I want to go to Mali, like Dad, and Egypt, like my distanced cousin, Nick. Nick.. so sad, his story. Once an Artist, now a mere mechanized commercial goon. Yes, oh yes, he’s paid well. But his soul’s a lost goat, looking for suckling, for Life. I don’t have any time to help, be some sort of savior.
Centering. Tomorrow morning, being a shepherd of sorts, bringing students coffee, as I did on that first day. But we’re only going to be there for an hour. Yeah, I know. IT’s part of the plan. I’ll put the “traveler” in the lounge, or copy room, let the other instructors have at…
The SB, still in freezer. And the pasta, still on burner. So paranoid about time.. am I going to get enough sleep, am I going to be ready for tomorrow… Will I have everything ready, perfect… Just relax! IS this any way to live, this obsession with time? No! Thinking the best way to defeat Time, my ever-enemy, is to ignore it, deny it significance.
Four years ago, I was adjuncting. And that’s all. I may have been in the wine world, but on my terms. 4. YEARS. Ago. So I guess me acknowledging this would calculate another win for time, right?
My friend, J.M., been with the estate for over 20 years, a true connection with terroir; all its conditions, fiddles, respites, wanders, contradictions. I admire him in a number of quarries; first, work ethic; second, knowledge and encompassing familiarity with the vineyards, all the blocks, micro-blocks, microclimates… And, frankly, wine as an element, before it reaches the bottle.
Tonight, just as interesting as today. How, in that I sit in a different seat in this nook, with an empty glass, waiting for this dinner to cook. Ideally, I should be asleep, now. But ideal is never the real. So here the write reels. And, I just checked on the SB, in the freezer… Nowhere near what I’d deem “ready”.
Want to post one more note on the teaching blog before I resign to rest for night. But I’m unsure. Only one more glass for the writer. With dinner.
If I were in a café on some hidden Paris street, I’d probably, in this current Literary shape, not write. I’d just observe. Have my wine. Relax. And OBSERVE. Like the Hemingway depiction in ‘Midnight in Paris’.