Jim leaves Mr. Joyce with me, which is a bit of an inconvenience as Katie put another assignment in my writing world, my new writing world, but I’m dominate in happiness with his arrival, more wonder of what it’d be like to be a dad, have a son and have to get work done.  And this new work, writing a blog for a small winery, friend of Katie’s in Healdsburg, just off the square.  Quaint producer very much in sync with environmental concerns and approaches.  Already learning from the photos he’s sent me and the tech sheets on the wines; a Rhône blend, a white blend, Merlot, Cab, three Pinots, and a Syrah from 2010 (spending two years in barrel and bottle, which is interesting, to me).  Have to produce three pieces today, then three tomorrow.  Payment to be worked out later in week when he, Ben, and I sit down.  We’ve emailed back and forth this morning so far, and now I see my wined future evermore in its assembly, saying goodbye to the adjunct life and chains.

Have to re-read some lecture notes I scribbled last night while sipping that Pinot, then the Zin.. taking some wild notes on them as well.  Think I stayed up far too late, and I did, stopped with the wine sips at a reasonable time (in fact I didn’t have as much as I thought I would, even dumping the rest of the Pinot into the sink, which I never do, especially with fruit from Santa Lucia).  Have to wake early like these farmers, get more work done than I ever had as writer and lecturer, change my shaping of written self– but the adjunct clasp, like a tirelessly encroaching gadfly, reminds me, that this is Sunday, and that tomorrow’s Monday, and that I have to be in class after the visit to the grower’s office.  Calming, going into the SRJC adjunct office later today, which I rarely do on weekends, but I need to get ahead with my work, close up the semester so I can focus on these wine writings and the wild narratives and deconstructions.  Wine, wine, the voice and personification of it though it needn’t be personified, need any help from some writer like me, as it’s already very much pleasurably vexed in its own verisimilitude and vivacity, voice.. voice.. the music it catapults to senses… that woman yesterday, the Virginia winery owner, her family selling that furniture business and doing the ‘follow the dream’ thing.. maybe that’s what I’m doing, and with this adjunct act I have to just a bit more hurt.

“What are you doing, Jamesie?” I ask, seeing him hiding over on the far side of my bed while I type on the floor, legs crossed, laptop just above needs like a rifle resting on lap.

“I playing with the pillows, okay?” he says, continues to watch a cartoon that I put on then he somehow manages to turn off the TV, take one of the books I keep in the other room without me noticing, then sit next to me and read.  “I going to read this book,” he boasts.  I smile then quickly go back to my typing, he doesn’t interrupt not even once and I inventory everything in my head, what I want to get today, the day before Week 13 ignites.. my blog.. lectures.. their blog.. grower writings.. more wine language play (like freewriting but wilder, more spontaneous and unplanned, nearly odd grammatically, like cubist paintings or beat poetry, some esoteric but terrifically universal expression.. here I go).