Tomorrow morning, get right to grading, then writing. I know, didn’t follow with my vision of having all prepped tonight, and graded. I know. But here I am, writing and planning for what will be done in morrow. Alice staying home and taking Kerouac and his little girlfriend Addison to school. I should probably let both sections out early, giving me more time to write, and plan, brainstorm, contribute to this ‘secret page collection’. On our walk this afternoon, J and Alice and I, thought about careers as I always do and what’s mine, what’s mine.. the Adjunct War, just material for the novel (which I finally started writing today, the Massamen piece.. 3 pages! … My new 3-page-a-day project, but not for 100 days, not sure how long). Not wine, but if I write about it and only write about it, then I have something Literary and marketable.. ick, “marketable”. But I have to think in that toll to some point, no? I want to move my family out of this condo, and if not out of Santa Rosa then to a more pictured parcel of it.
The wine tonight, a ’13 RRV Pinot from Decoy– I mean Migration (another of Duckhorn’s battalion of labels). Never had this wine before, and I don’t yet have some “official” opinion, but I am sipping and enjoying and thinking about future, the future, my future and career as a writer. Last sip, I saw myself at a bar, in a hotel, on tour with my lectures, not book, speaking at a nearby university on Deconstruction and Popular culture.. and there… just had an idea for tomorrow. Not going to scribble it in the Comp Book. If it’s meant to stay it will! The wine now takes me to the road, the different shades and street lights I’ll see; the traffic lights and how some are obviously different than those here in Bennett Valley while others are loudly different, like they were constructed by other measurement systems, or other dialectics, other cultures. And they were. The Pinot encourages travel, it instructs me to instruct like something’s going to be lost in my character if I don’t. Again thinking of my sister and her travels and hoping she takes time to write, write about what she sees and what she does and who she is.. a maker of what people like me sip. I’m no expert, but I’m connected to my senses, and I’m vocal, –I’m a WRITER– this wine’s forcing me to write and sit in this nook chair, staring at the flowers my sister-in-law sent her sister/my wife, wishing recovery.. and I recover, I’m revived and see more, see more than ‘more’ is defined.
Life short. And I’m not stopping, and not sipping too much as that will only me slow. I can’t afford to decline even slightly in pace. But I breath, watch my fingers as they jump and skip and overconfidently cropdust the keys, hitting only what they want– frankly I’m not writing this now, it’s the moment in a concerted succession with the wine and these literary fingertips– With Hemingway on my mind, his Feast and the Sea, the Sun, his Farewell.. so much reading more to do– This Pinot tells me to calm and mimic it. I can’t, but I see what it would urge such. About half a glass on the counter behind the writer/adjunct.. position different, my terrain sub rosa and calculated. New thesis.