…laptop next to bed in case I woke at some ungodly early hour, then I could write. But no. My body insisted I get the sleep.
Hear a train, THE train, passing outside. Travel.. travel, I think to myself sipping more of the Ale than the mocha. Everywhere now screams Autumn; from the vineyards and their leaves to the way the wind pushes the leaves from trees and vineyards from one side of the street to the other. In Napa today it was especially encouraging for the writer, this adjunct who today does nothing associated with his bloody adjunct role. Solano re-scheduled to evaluate me after I learned the delightful secretary or clerk who always finds a way to infuse some commentary rude when we speak failed to put my 11/5 observation on the dean’s calendar. 12/3 he’s supposed to drop by. Twelve days before the semester’s to end. Such a bloody joke, I swear…
Behind in the progress I have set for this wine-wound novel I’m writing– no surprise, adjunct in the adjunct world for nearly ten years has always flirted with wine’s industry, even taking jobs but being let go from a few of them, only now seeing an entrepreneurial approach, selling wines by writing and blogging about them. Obvious, yes, but I have to try. And now, to be honest, I am in the mood for wine. But I’m going to sip a bit more of this mocha so it’s not a total money disposal– And on such note, spent just under $12 yesterday, all day. More than tripled that today, but oh well, it’s another day off for the adjunct.
Essays.. I start writing politically charged responses and opinions, mainly geared and shifted toward the reaction of politicians on both sides concerning the Syrian refugees. Ted Cruz, one of the presidential hopefuls for the Republican trough–‘hopeful’ very much being an intentional word in more than a dozen ways–decries any empathy or concern for these exhausted and frightened peoples from the cataclysmically parceled country. And then, you have President Obama and many democrats who appear to not exercise enough caution, adhering to those American principles of the promised land and ‘people come here to escape danger, find freedom, establish themselves’. No other time in America, that I can remember, has a middle-ground on a national security/immigration matter been more necessitated. If we knee-jerk, react with too much dismissal, and distrust, then we’re viewed as cruel. But then, if we blindly open the doors and have no system, or even a moderately practical system in place, we put danger in our place, potentially harming our country.
I begin another essay, 502 words, on Donald Trump, and what a laugh he is, more than he’s ever been. He’s a celebrity, for what. Money. And now he’s a potential political figure, the leader of the country that embodies and boasts freedom like no other? This same stooge suggesting we give all Muslims in the country IDs, much like the Jewish population during Hitler’s short-lived Reich.
My desk soon becomes littered with printed pages, pieces I fancy submitting but not before realizing I’m better off publishing it myself.
The mocha’s disgusting. Could use a beer.
Fine. But I’m not wasting the Ginger Ale.