Sipping a glass of the ’12 Taylor in my Passport glass.  Pain in right knee, and I’m pretty sure it’s from the long hours of the weekend, dashing back, forth, to bottles then to people sticking their glasses in the writer’s face.. me pouring, looking at the clock with everyone; R, C, M, D, all…  This Cabernet is telling me to let go, stop overthinking, stop thinking, and just write.  Don’t worry about the “theme” of your blog, the layout, any of that shit.  You’re a writer, not a web designer.. just write.  People will read—

And today I’ve decided, I need to sell Mon Petit Mise.  I need the money, and I’m tired of not making money, with as much as I write, type, sip and scribble, everything in effort.  Too quiet in this A-Walk Studio, making the writer uncomfortable.  Don’t want little Emma to wake, nor little Kerouac.  Been quite a night, I have to say, with Emma nearly inconsolable from exhaustion and Jackie sad and a bit dismissed from me having to help Alice with the weeping petit…  I deserve this glass.  And possibly one more after.

The quiet I experience now, and feel around me— this Zen, more depth and direction than the adjunct cell.

Going to kitchen to pour one more Taylor, then return here to desk and just enjoy the quiet, I may not even write.  I may not read, nor finish this post— I might NOT read.  But just meditate with Cabernet.  Feel like she and I haven’t had a conversation in some time, a meaningful one—  Back, and already sip one from glass last.  This morning in English 5, students read crEATive work.. one, ’N’, read a poem which was witty, cheery but critical and deconstructive, while another just read a collection of sayings and dialogues she’s captured over the semester.  I’ve this before noted, but:  I NEED TO BE MORE A STUDENT THAN PROF’!  With my eagerness and assignments, deadlines, printed pages, experimentation with words and scenes, the pathos formed in a page’s progression and contribution to larger work.  I’m a student.  Not an instructor.  Listening to the full-timers talk in the halls and talk to each other, their know-everything octave.. makes me sick.  I’m open about my dominant desire to learn, and my tiny-ing urge to “teach”.

This desk, my island, inlet, enclave, reflective farm, my most known Road.  The wine now laps me with concentration, tells me to hurry up but I yell back at it from my inaudible roar, “I can’t!  I’m talking with [meaning ‘drinking’] you!”  Wine still fascinates me with what it does and how it grows and expands and tells me in my writing to move certain ways; ow we skirmish and collaborate, collude then collide.  Wine will be nothing more than fun, a fractionally serious saunter.

READERS:  Do you drink wine?  And if you do.. what does it say to you?  Try to personify it, give it a voice, a tonality and disposition.