First, walk with Alice and Jack up Bennett Valley climbs (by golf course, those streets, with those houses that cause fantasy in me), then coffee (mocha for the writer), then rush ready for work then a frenzied day of pours and preferences and varying attitudes from so many from so many somewheres.  Now I’m in the nook, ever-focused on consolidation for the students, writing the most interwoven and intricate and antagonistic lectures I can.. so the maddenedread blog will be executed at this term’s end, which is now only a matter of week from the when in which I sit.  Tonight’s wine, a Zin, the Dry Creek option from Arista.. then later write about the RRV Pinot, then just, quite bluntly, keep Self writing, and no TV, no shows, not even the writing documentaries I frequently use to push Self.  Monday a day off for the writing adjunct and I’ll spend it completely in adjunct role, and I’ll write a lecture on Sedaris and the essay form, around 1500 words worth.  I’ll have them all silent and connected and eager to respond but reluctant to as well.  I have to keep writing and posting and SELF-publishing to this bloody blog so one day I can print and disseminate my own efforts.  I do value the traditional printing and distribution of page, but this is what I have to do for the being time.

I do find my Self in a bit of a mood, here at the nook table, acknowledging Time’s assault on me and my work and my knees and the patience I may have never had.  I want to walk outside, and I would on the Road, at whatever hotel I’d be put in, just walk and with no aim or destination, stay away from the bars and people– just find the moments for Self, look at sky, knowing it’s the same as Yulupa’s but with varied angles and positionings.  The Life– topic and glow, in the pages I’ll show, who’ll read and who’ll conceive?  I’m quite overthinking the prospects and punctuations of my presence, with any.. but there I am, HERE I am.  And I don’t know what to do with this mood.. concentrating on wine, making wine, wine of my own and with my interpretive sieve.  Know Eddie thought of this once, maybe once or twice before he was published, but I can only wonder, and I’m getting tired of wondering, why am I still pouring wine like a local dunce and why do I let my Self be lead, carrot’d as an adjunct by Them– those chairs and deans and presidents– doing whatever on stage on professional development days, trying to look like one of us or give some convivial impression.  And who’s now the dullard?  You should have seen him, this guy, this ‘president’, dimwit dope with that assured grin knowing what his salary is while adjuncts laugh at him and thinking of throwing something.