adjunct wining

At Solano and I think I have my piece edited down adequately for the Grape Growers.  I’m turning today around, after the rough start this morning and that goddamn drive out here.  I calm myself and know the semester won’t be forever and that my little girl awaits, December.  And now I remember I have some emails I need to send to prospects for mmc..

Sent two emails, need to go out to car and get book for class.  Didn’t make it on Thursday because of J’s apt.  But I’m here today to make a firm statement to my students: that I’m here, we’re writing, and this will be a successful semester for all interested in making it so.  Moving quick.. back and forth between the blogging/content shop and school.. have to order biz cards.. TODAY!!  Going straight home after this.. work work work.. the Sanglier blog, the ‘vvv idea’, my site, and whatever else needs to be done.  No wine tonight, only work, and getting every-fucking-thing done, and checked off.

This computer, my wife’s, again giving the writer grief, doing all sorts of weird shit.  But I type on and if I lose something and it just erases a whole fucking paragraph unexpectedly, then it does.  I’ll survive.  I won’t let tech win.  I will never let it win.

So I find myself in this adjunct parlor, not knowing what to do.  Go for a walk?  I don’t know…  I’m going into that room unprepared, I’ll tell you that much.  And after class I’m sprinting to my car to get home and work.  Biz cards–  actually, I could start designing them now, couldn’t I?

Started designing business cards, but I have to stop as I have to go out to the bloody car.  UGH, I think, I’M ALWAYS INTERRUPTED BY SOMETHING OR SOMEONE!

Home, just posted Sonoma Wine Country Weekend piece, and I’m frustrated with the tangible that I haven’t been writing for myself as much, of late.  Only for hire, for clients and for whatever.. to make a living.. but the novels.. what the fuck ever happened to that?  This bubbling winemaker will finish his novel and wake tomorrow so early it frightens everyone that knows him.  And right to the writing and how he will make wine, SB and Merlot, only those two and better than anyone else has ever.  Winemakers all versus this writer, this Beat poet that only goes to his keys as that’s him and that’s his story, once and adjunct professor now a wined writer in his wined ways and always about his wine—yes, the titles ferment and forward.  My prose gallops with fire steps causing my seismology to quake my sanity into something paginated—more stories, but harvest is full and still motioned—my beat only starting.  On stage.  A shook nimbus.  So now what what now, the Road only knows…

Next morning, I’m pulled to fiction, stories of winemakers walking vineyard blocks and how they test the fruit to see where it is, how close to pull, their pull, the pull toward wine.  Today, supposed to be over 100.  And I can only pray the classrooms are tolerable.  Would rather be out there, yes in the heat walking some Cabernet Row in Alexander Valley or on the Napa floor.  Soon.. ’16, and I’ll come home to my wife and babies and tell them about the fruit, show them pictures of what we saw as a crew.  Then when asleep them all, I’ll write, record how the air felt, how the fruit smelled when crushed, how the barely fermenting juice told me something about the vintage and block from which it came.

Jackie and I set to soon leave, and after leaving him with teachers I’ll go finally retrieve my harddrive and laptop which still needs something done to it.  Always with tech I’m battling…  Need more coffee to deal with this, this button pad of mine and what it’s done to my writing habits and days.  Week 4, nearly done, or halfway there.  And on Friday, I’ll meet with Chelsea and go to the Sanglier room, buy some wine and write on what new notes and taste and quietly record what dimensions I want in my wines.  My room will be here soon.

11:02, clocking in 2 minutes late for this session, after tech enjoys another victory.  My harddrive is safe, all writings from the laptop are there, meaning thousands of pages of my prose and poetry and thoughts, sketches dreams and all.  BUT….  They need to check a software issue, at the Apple store, so it’s more than the IR cable that Phil the data guy said.  I shouldn’t be using this laptop of my wife’s as I’m sure something will soon wrong with it go.  Already hot outside.. over 80, easily.  And in this adjunct cell, it’s, well, barely comfortable.  I can tell the AC is on but not at what it should be.  I’m a disgruntled writer cuz I’ve put myself in the spot for disgruntle.  So I do take the responsibility, and I think about my son, what he’s doing at school.. nothing bothering him, no bills or tech issues, no deadlines, no house maintenance (which I don’t have yet.. knock wood).  I feel at a certain peaceful pulse in this adjunct cell, only my backpack, phone (enemy), and Dr. Pepper right on desk with me.  I take the time to think, or more than think and more than collect, but design and plan—still have the piece to write about the Cirq Pinot I sipped the other night with Mom and Dad, and biz cards.. did fool around with some designs but didn’t settle on anything, yet, as my site isn’t up.. don’t have capital to do so yet have to wait for SRJC check.  Writing for myself vs writing for others… it’s all writing, and truly the only thing I want to do for a living, how I want my babies to see me and my wife to mention me to new mommy friends and their husbands—“What does your husband do?” “He’s a writer.” Easy.  Not “He’s an adjunct professor at a couple campuses and a writer and blogger and he pours a little at a small winery.” No.  That’s not what or who I’m set to be, re-writing the story in fact at the drafting board cutting 60% of what I submitted to Self.

Reminding myself again I don’t have much time to stall or excessively deliberate over anything, any of this..

Just typed 144 words for the Cirq bottle.  The last writing to-do on my list.  The other two items are “Content for vvv” and “biz cards”.  Keeping myself busy as a writer, otherwise how can I call myself a writer or blogger or whatever I’m to be called.  11:18, and I see the day shrinking, and the semester moving.  Can’t tell you how much I don’t want to drive to the hell that Mendo will tomorrow be.  Easily over 100.  Why did I take that section?  What did I see myself getting from it, a better question.  Or more a statement than question.  This quiet, in the adjunct hole, needed.  Tempted to walk around campus, maybe get a snack or one of those breakfast burritos, just walk and take in the student energies, all the pursuits and the rushes to transfer to a 4-year.  I’m embracing the same urgency, in fact more intensely with mmc and vvv.  I thought of this last night, after putting J to bed and Alice and I sat on the front porch, in the dark, she with her mint chip and me with a splash of the Sanglier Cab.  There was a meditation in that, one fixing and mending and pushing me.