This Cabernet that I’m sipping is absurdly enchanting. And I’m in a relaxed rouse, with my draft of the newsletter off to the publisher, owner… I’m building this mmc business, but it’s not moving quick enough– I know that’s the wrong attitude, so I refocus on the wine, and tomorrow, and how I have to wake up early to get certain things written, like the lecture for the Solano section and notes for Mendo– My SR lectures went along with hilarious brilliance today, if I must say, especially the 3PM section. There’s something about this semester, I’ll say, I don’t know what, just something.
Full from dinner, so I’m not sure I’ll be headed upstairs soon, but who knows. Would love another glass of this Cab but I need to finally rise at the hour I keep writing about. The wine tells me to taste again, find out what about it has me so held in its hue, and how it harnesses itself to my makeup and vision, this prose and sitting, the universal session of my ambitions and actions… The writer the professor the wine writer and love, and maybe one day ‘maker’. Who knows, who knows, I don’t know.
Thinking about wine and my relationship with Art and how to develop everything further.. being this full slows me but I won’t let myself be slowed no, not for anything or anyone so I keep writing with this bizarre rhythm and hope it sticks. Sticks to what, to readers and the wine world, someone saying something, something different that what’s in those flimsy publications..
In Solano library. All paper work done and– I should be writing this in my semester Comp Book.. writing in too many places I know but somehow it’ll all get consolidated. Have to send an email. Then look over wine notes from yesterday, last night, on the vineyard treatments before harvests and the varietals that are being picked, someone recently, just this morning actually telling me that the Chardonnay appears ravishing on the Napa side. Haven’t heard much about Chard in our quarter.
Have some in-class pieces to grade already, from the Solano 370 section, examining tendencies and the dimensions of the students’ writings; tonality, paragraphing, punctuation. Then, imagery. Not so comfortable in this little cube, here in the library with students around me. Funny as I don’t so feel at SRJC– so I move, find different suggestion for my pages in a more enclosed scene for my prose.
In an adjunct collaborative, or joint office, or lounge area. I don’t know what this is but there are two other adjuncts in here now, was three. I feel like a winery competing with other labels for some sought-after fruit, some vineyard block. I get vile glares from these other instructors but my head’s down to this keyboard. And it’s not quiet in here, as the library area is just outside the door to my 12 and 3, and 6. I can only think of this semester’s end, the last chapter, already, when I’m fully into my writing practice (mmc), teaching two sections at SRJC, and my daughter’s here, I’ll speed home ignoring the laws of 12, 29, then back onto 12 to Santa Rosa. She’ll be in my arm’s crook and I’ll read to her from some of Jackie’s old books, or my journal. Or just talk to her. She’ll look up at me and associate my face with story telling, with the day of work, with comfort, with love and art and Life.
11:42AM– Can’t get to room early as someone’s teaching in it. I’ll leave this adjunct cooperative or shared cell at 12, so I have a tall glass of time to myself, like that Cabernet last night, which I’m surprised was so vocal. Last time I opened a bottle, on the first night it was a bit coy, or shut, or diffident on the first night. The second night it was expository and narrative, telling and beatific. But last night, right when I poured it, layers were boasted. There was this expressionist angularity to the palate movement and varietal voracity. It taught me again to give wine more time, to give it space to evolve and read itself for oration. And that’s what again draws me to the winemaker and grower, how they provoke and evoke and emote all the suggestions and dimension of a grape, the vines and “terroir” as so many now boast. What I tasted last night was more than the recently commoditized “terroir”, but personification, oenological syncopation between grower and varietal and winemaker. And me, the one reacting, the scribbling sipper. Have to get this out of my head before class, the wine’s always a distracter, a puller from pusher out of any linear attention. Wine causes the adjunct to dream, of days where I don’t have to freeway fly, where I don’t have to look, where I don’t have to apply. I’ll only apply Self to wine and telling its stories, sharing my reactions and attraction, and glass-tilted actions with readers, others following wine. And that chapter just landed, finally. But I don’t relax, I don’t become even the least complacent.
Lecture prepared, for the most part, but the most integral element of the day is that they turn in their work and go get the book. The work, true scholastic gymnastics can initiate. And I out of steam run. My optimism is qualified, and the writer’s visions of wine become a bit blocked, by a mental catalogue of other pulls and pushes. Need to gather standalone pieces for printed project, and need to go through stills and footage in camera. Andy talking about the vines and me shooting closeups of Pinot clusters only days before they get picked– although I’m not sure the particular RRV block I’m thinking of has been pulled. Yet. Or maybe it has. We put together a pool, at Arista, when will the first estate block be swarmed? I had first guess, and I scribbled ‘8/22/15’. Two days. A Saturday. Will they pull it on a Saturday, or wait till Monday? I win a magnum of something should I be right, a certain oenological Nostradamus. And then not a thing should I even a day off be. So we’ll see. And anymore that’s what wine and the vineyards represent to the writer, something at which he’s not at all excelled. Waiting. Patience. Temperament of temper. But I have to learn. I have to be taught. And the wine’s instruction, especially last night, materializes most poignantly.
My favorite glass– I mean ‘class’.