3PM-ers out, and I don’t care.  I was nowhere near a teaching mood today.  Haven’t eaten so I’m a bit hungry, but I’m agitated, by my own procrastinating qualities, and the knowledge that I could be doing more, working harder as a writer and blogger and business owner, I guess.  So what to do?  The angle of being a father, I need to record that more, more writing on Jackie and my relationship with my best little Beatnik friend.. everything from where we go and at what times and what he says and how I see him fitting into the eventual winery, other than being the cute little guy that says “HI!” when you walk in.  Which he doesn’t do often, say ‘hi’ to unknowns.  But I need to capitalize on the material that he is as a character– and before you say it’s trivial, such and approach, or objectifying him or just using my son as content or marketing fader, NOT TRUE.  It’s praise of him and sharing how thankful I am for this little Artist in my life, and how he makes me a more centered writer–  I really should go get him now but I needed to record this, what I’m feeling and hearing in my nuclei.

Now I’m seeing more stories.  Again I have to return to the reality and the trial and trails of the adjunct, and why so many of us leave “the profession” and why we blog as we do.  The adjunct tale, how we count the weeks in the semester especially in a semester where we, I, we, maybe took a class at a campus we don’t entirely adore.–  In the breakroom writing then two adjuncts, both high school English teachers come in and bitch about the papers they have to hand back, “come-to-Jesus moment,” Vanessa says, then she goes off on the food on campus, all complaints, and not only from her, from me, all of us.  At first I got tired of hearing them, most especially my own–  Now she continues on about how she just went out to eat, the other adjunct asks about a corkage fee and she boasts how she doesn’t drink, “so the wine thing doesn’t interest me.” Sounded arrogant.  And embittered, probably from the papers she had to grade and now has to tonight return.  And, with all embrace and speed, I empathize.  So firingly, quite aligned with her thoughts.  So we’re all fucking bitter, in certain moments.

Home, I open a bottle of the Merlot I made in ’12, and what vroom, what vivacious algorithmic velocity to its everything, EVERYTHING.  This is the wine I should make, for the rest of my life.  If this were for sale in my tasting room, and that’s how I;m tasting it, as a consumer, a first-time visitor, I quite enjoy it.  Believable and emboldened fruit formation with a romantic texture and consistency, sip 1 to last.  Lovely.  And I don’t want to talk about wines like I always do but I quite like this, if you must know.  Time for one more class, the night’s cap before my long day come morrow…  Just smelled the Merlot, from the final glass I poured myself and I had to walk away and record my reaction; the rich lavender, cherry and cinnamon, throwing their noted bodies into my perception.  This is just the wine I want to make.  And I have.  I did!  So I have to do it again, soon.

New note, that I again sip after washing my hands in the small powder room by the wine cabinet; dried rose petal, or spicy potpourri.  I may have had too much and my senses compromised but I’m not distracted by my phone or some message that may or may not be waiting for me who cares right now I’m a writer writing stopping for nothing not even punctuation– I know I’m viewed as scattered, a backwards swirling universe or maelstrom, but I’m writing at least and so much fearlessly.  But something in me still thickly loves to teach, to interact with and talk to students about books and writing; to Exchange Ideas, as Coleman put it.  And my approach to this wine thing is just that: an Exchange of Ideas.  Not trying to “educate” anyone, just hoping to share the love and fascination with the world and terrestrially vinified galavant around us.

Can’t believe I made this wine– well, with much help from my friend Blair, yes, but it was my idea to start.  That is, this wine couldn’t and wouldn’t be sipped now by the writer if I hadn’t had the curiosity–  I remember the day the wine arrived to the K—- crush pad, the dry ice being added, and then when it was in the back room, cold soaking.. dark, rested, sumptuous and taunting.  So it is now, when I sip, poking at my composure and daring me to analyze it, to describe what I taste– but what if I just want to sip?