NaNoWriMo excerpt (no edits)

…12 & Mission, I run into a guy who used to work at the Starbucks closer to the condo, he now studying engineering, “It’s been almost a year,” he tells me since he’d worked there.  I concede I hadn’t noticed, he saying “oh, that’s okay,” I release him back to his studies.

Later, around 3:30, a tasting schedule in Kenwood, a producer I haven’t visited in some time.  And I can’t look forward to it, still stressed and tired from the growers writings.  Producing content for others, while much much better than some square job putting on an apron or nametag, it is writing, using my day’s word count or taking from it for someone else.  And my mood returns, that one with the fangs, the same nearly that flies from me when addressing the adjunct thing.  I won’t let that happen to my writing, ever.  So.. I make myself look forward to the tasting.. bringing a camera, sure to taste Chards and Pinots which appears to me much of me, lately with wine, but who nows what else’ll happen.  The day is free and not scheduled, and I think of the outside conditions, a blend of Spring and Fall, shunning and very much pushing to side Summer, any Winter hint.  Temperament and poetic movements in the what I can’t see.  But in here, the people sipping their coffee, the coffee kid to my right, either packing to leave or getting something from his bag.. latter.  An older man next to him, either interviewing two people or talking to a parent of a student with the child there.. don’t know.  My hearing’s occupied by jazz, and I don’t want to hear, to be frank.  A girl in front of me, with earphones in smiling at her phone, more intent than I am it seems with this entry.  I try to think of something to write, take this writing and sitting in some new direction as I have free time that so many others today don’t, like the waitress that took my table, earlier at a brunch for self in Windsor, where I read and noted in my Composition Book everything I saw, the young family with a little boy that reminded me of Mr. Joyce, I then thought of me as a father, and where I’d take my son on a day off like this, maybe to the beach or the forest as Dad used to.  My coffee, the small I ordered, getting cold.. still have to finish the poem I began earlier, and write that 500 word piece on poetics, aesthetics in poems (especially those penned for performance).

My mind goes in several places as it always does but I stop it, I don’t let it, I stop it, forcefully.  And focus on a river of reaction, just thoughts that accost me, no order and no reason, I just write to write and maybe that’s the truest form of writing.  Maybe that’s poetic.  I don’t know.  Not today–  Look at clock, like I’m in one of my adjunct sprints, 1:13.  Habit, I know.  Have to leave at 2 to get car washes, tires checked, then home to shower quick before tasting, driving across Santa Rosa two times, just like an adjunct.  Always in the car.  I’m tired before I start and feel a creeping competitive compulsion in me that I’ve never felt before– wanting to be the best or at least hardest working writer in the world, as well as lecturer.  Not professor, or instructor, or teacher.  Not even sure I like the tag “lecturer”.  Maybe I am just a writer, after all.  I post again to my wild wine blog, and get a couple responses, that some don’t think my approach to wine is serious enough.  Well… not sure I should care.  Not sure I should respond.  Should I just let it go?  What do I want?  WHAT does this “writer” want?

I blame my mood and lack of attention on the semester, the “Them”, all of it that traps us and wants us to chase sections.  I’m staying in my current page, effort, not fleeing to poetry but remaining in my meditative wine walk.  Through vineyards as I did the other day.  Only thinking of my wine, the wine I’d make, and how I’d write about everything from the cleaning of barrels to letting them dry, to filling them with a small lot of SB, or Merlot.  Just everything wine, and the odd voices I’d give them, or rather translate them into.  Everything in my yearning is wine-woven, that’s obvious.  And it’s a shame, the teaching at community college, how it–  Well, I’ll keep a class or two.  More than likely just one, I’m thinking.  Even the paperload with two classes is dumbing, stunning.  With the winery today I’ll note everything, probably even stay for a glass, of Pinot or Chard I don’t know but this day off will see no me-with-papers, grading.  OR, writing any “copy” for clients.  Today is me and my exploration–

“Hey, so you still writing?” the coffee kid, Carl he reminds me, asks.

“Yeah, yeah I am,” I say, taking my earphones out, wishing he’d go back to his book, and Engineering text I saw looking over once.

“Oh that’s cool, which classes are you teaching?”

“Two sections of 1A.” I don’t even want to bother getting into the whole Mendo and Solano topics, not today, not on my day off.  Not when I’m in my own song with these paragraphs that I love as they have no direction, they just let me enjoy a freedom that people like my neighbor don’t wade in, ever.

“Cool.. yeah I transferred to Sonoma State and am almost done.  It’s crazy, you know, went so fast.”

“Yeah.. no, I understand.”

“Well sorry to bug you, I just wanted to say hey one more time, I gotta leave, have to meet my buddies for a strategy thing,” he looks back at his bags.

I find this interesting for some reason, ‘a strategy thing’, for some one his age, early twenties.  Strategy for what?  “Strategy for what?”

“We started an IT business, well kind of, we see what’s wrong with peoples’ computers and other equipment and try to fix it.  We might get an office in Rohnert Park, we’re growing hella fast.”

I feel a large jawset of envy dig into my skin and brain and dreams and everything on my liste.  “Really?” I say.  He goes on to elaborating on the growth of his venture when I don’t want him to and don’t want to anymore hear how I haven’t done any of this at my age, fucking 36, how he in his early or early mid-20s is well on his entrepreneurial way.  “Why not me?!” I think, but then listen to see how he did it, or some clue from this rushing studying optimistic darting kid. 

But he says nothing helpful, before I can find exactly where he is in his speech he continues “…and that’s about it…So anyway, man, I’ll let you go.” And he leaves.  But I’m motivated.  No more of this adjunct shit…