My morning anxiety beginning

to dissipate.  Have to get a key from the department so I can use the classroom’s tech during class today, then up to Mendo, which I plan to let go early.  I’m starting to calm down, as the whole drive over here I Self-pestered with the questions like ‘am I doing enough’, and ‘I’m writing enough, right?’, and WHY CAN’T I WAKE AT 5AM LIKE I WANT?  I will tomorrow, I have to.. in the adjunct hut right now, the two Math’s talk loudly in that hokey conference room, which for the first time with the door open I see there’s a flatscreen TV on the wall.  And, why?  That could’ve gone toward some pot meant for hiring another one of us on.  But that’s not my battle anymore.  I’m set on writing for my life and developing my creative business…(es).

The rest of the St. Francis Merlot last night sipped, and it still had structure and palate posture, and expressed quite a bit about the ’12 vintage.  I’m having trouble concentrating at the moment as the Math people laugh and joke loud, almost as if they’re boasting their presence in the room, in that room, the conference room.. they’re important and they’re having an important conference.  I’m ignoring it, now their volume increases so it gets a bit more difficult.  And annoying.  So I put in my earphones, and Mr. Hutcherson plays me a song, one that makes me forget where I am nearly and I think of wine, my perfect world where that’s the dominant artifact and revolution, what revolves in my scope and senses.  Ah…..  They go away, with just a little music from my good friend.  Too bad there’s the Mendo section tonight, as I’d love to visit this one tasting room in Healdsburg.  Of course, Healdsburg. That’s my town.  Tomorrow night I take Alice there for our anniversary night–  I’m thinking.. I don’t know.  Well, I do, I just don’t want to misspell it.  I look up and see the Math man’s mouth moving.  I smile to myself as I can’t hear a thing, thank the Craft.  But for some reason my mood returns– have to focus on that world, my wined world, where I write about nothing but wine– and that’s the magic of what’s in the bottle and the world, culture, industry, especially in Sonoma– the airy nature and melodic movement of everything in its grip.

Tomorrow morning, waking before 5, as a matter of…  Have to, and I’ll start gathering these short writings; the stories, the sketches the essays the notes and written rushed bits of thought I have from time to time.  And to be printed, I just decided, here at this adjunct table of the odd shape– not just thrown to a blog, or to some ebook site, or anything like that.  Pages.  Actual. Printed. Pages.  A bloody book.  The Math people still talk.  Looking at them and their odd pedagogical varietal sickens me.  The adjunct life sickens me, what sickened me on the way over here to flat Fairfield.

Today’s lecture.. on of the formidable female form.  The Math’s come out from the room, woman leaves man stays– the depressed-looking chap with the gray hair, sweater, stacked black bags on that pull-thing, like a luggage piece, like he’s going to travel, but no he’s going nowhere– ‘nother note to Self, back to my thoughts and visions of the Road and what it has for me– wine will get me there, this will not, this teaching, this hoping for assignments term to term.  And there– my last statement on this, this term and the adjuncted spot I’m again in, flying on the freeway and not like a falcon or anything graceful but like a hobbling pigeon.

Tomorrow I set out on a mission for Chardonnay.  To find one that continues this new white Burgundy skate I’m on, and all to my bewilderment and baffle–  me, Chardonnay, how?  But here I am, and I have to listen.  I will.  And I’ll learn.  Angst, stripped.

Now:  The drive doesn’t bother–  I’m too busy relishing the Road.