10:26, and I’m still moving. How I don’t know. Has to be from this resplendent first semester day I had. I have my night’s cap at right as usual, the Cab-based blend from my Napa winemaking friend, Jason. And I sip and think of the Road that’s just ahead, all the travel and what I’ll note— and I did take, took, a couple notes in the “holstered journal” as I stated in the syllabi (for both classes) throughout the day, one of them reading “so tired… can’t wait for wine”. Which you’d think would put me to sleep but to be curt and candid with you, reader, I’m exhausted to the extent of not feeling the effects of the wine. Which is lovely as I can actually enjoy the body and narrative of the wine. I taste Napa, its valley and sub-blocks. Tomorrow I’ll be in Healdsburg, at Sanglier, just off the square but I need to run before, right after leaving Jackie at Merryhill. This new submission of me disregards the wear, any fatigue, I just write till I feel it’s time to stop. I’ll get back into running tomorrow and that will give me quite another reason to travel and blog from my hotel room, log my thoughts and how I’m finally out there— I must paginate that my friend Jason’s red blend has me singing the wine riles, the euphonious echoes of any wine-honed valley.
The adjunct story, yes decided in many respects my tone and disposition but not the entirety of— I sing within the ownership of my offerings to students, and what a humbling immediacy it is being in front of them, talking as I do, sharing my ideas and them so attentive and connected.
The wine catches me, holds me in place and orders I acknowledge it— and to be more truthful; my wife, now, watches some reality TV something, “reality”, and I am here in the study, in earshot of the TV’s audible bile but I cement my Self in the peregrination of my poise, the Zen and centeredness of the momentary composition. Longing for Sur as Duluoz did, and I should go, just for a weekend, by myself, lock myself in some hotel room, not a distanced dingy hut. But somewhere.. even where my wife and I spent our wedding night (shouldn’t write “even”, as the digs were rather delicious, visual and imagist, commanding). I’d write, order more and more coffee to the room and have a novel by the time I left, only days later— the Bradbury timeline of 9 days (I think it took him to write ‘451’.
Closing the session, both babies asleep and Ms. Alice in other room with her BRAVO shows. Thinking of this morning, rocking Ms. Emma, then handing her to Ms. Alice, then leaving. I’ve never felt like more a writer— the yapness for travel tramples me. So I write faster, that is till I feel the wrench turning in all crosses about my brain to sleep. A wreck, this writer—