In the adjunct cell, and

I write on the wines I tasted at client 2’s.  Love each of them.  And to be forcefully candid, I looked for flaws in the wines, and I couldn’t find a thing.  Nothing.  The closest I came was with the– doesn’t matter.  It was a reach, at best.  So much free time before class and I love it.  Listening to my chill beats that I would have in play at the mmc office, and I’m in my own sort of heaven.. nothing to grade, just me, this mocha, my Comp Book, the laptop, the quiet, music with the haunting and endrunkening reverb, I just smile, as this is MY office.  Not an adjunct cell– MINE.  I can do what I wish at the pace I choose.

The wines, have me again thinking about my own label.  Damnit!  Why does I always get thrown back to the winemaker role?  Shit.. no wine tonight.  And I mean NONE!  Tossing the remainder of that Albariño, and waiting till tomorrow night, when I open either a Pride or a Lancaster, or the Cirq.  Should I open the Cirq?  Why not?  I mean, what do I lose in doing so?  Or should I open the Stewart Cab that Blair gave me to write about.  These are problems for a writer, that others would laugh about and dismissively with that modern attempt at comedic sarcasm say “first world problems, much?” I always roll my eyes, especially with questions like that, as I’m not sure, with the upspeak, if it’s a question or statement.  But I’ll open something.. maybe revisit one of my ’12 wines, the Mikey Merlot or the New Dad Cuvée– how to decide I can’t and I just stew here in the office, with the music stopped– what the hell?

4:59, and with more thoughts than I’m able to handle or “distill”.  So I just type, after taking a breathing break in the parking lot with light temp and thickly soft gusts against all sides of my character.  Saw one of the students, talked with her for a bit about the rough draft, Tiburon where her dad lives, and the absurd hours of the Writing Center and Library over Summer.  I swear, does anyone on this campus truly care about the students?  There’s not even a vending machine near Emeritus with water… a student actually approached me just as I began my break, asking “Do you know where there’s a vending machine nearby?” I told her there isn’t one, that she’d have to catch the bookstore before it closes, at 5.  Another ridiculous hour, if you ask me.

Running tomorrow morning, after Ms. Alice returns from her Spin class.  Good for her, I always think.  So consistent and dedicated.  Unlike her writerhusband who always thinks of some warrant to get out of running, damn him.

Eating cashews.. killing time.. looking at my notes from the tasting.  Pinot.. Grenache… a blend a Cab a Merlot– so much to think about as a writer with wine and how to react and how to conceive and conceptualize it, them, me writing about them.