Looking out at vineyard, breeze, quiet, zen, collection. Taking notes on semi-colon lecture. Thought about writing it now, on lunch, rush-writing it, but I need more time, more thought for such a lecture, which is coming across accusatory, but that’s very much the intent. Could just spend lunch on my phone like I see so many students on campus, or people anywhere really, but I need meditation, this breeze, birds just over me, hoping they don’t shit on my keyboard. And if they do, the story intended it. I won’t lie, I’m lucky to have found this winery, for it to have found me, to be having a serene setting and sitting like this; ideas catapulting themselves at my synapses— Equilibrium avec paragraph and poem. Its own philosophy. Precisely why I tell students to write every moment that instructs them to so do. In being here at Dutcher I’m sipping the scenic music, all measure and tantalizing tablature about mes sens (my senses). The office that I have here, a gift from the property, the winery, its owner, the employees. It’s hard to believe where I am right now, writing, looking at the leaves on the soil, recently pulled along with straying canes. Vineyard growing with more life and voice and chords, visually chanting and singing, lecturing me to envelope Self in moment as I counsel students to. So now what… What do I write? Why do I have to think about it? Why not just connect with the cosmic maelstrom of it all, the ameliorating soupçon chirping at me in concert with the birds. Twenty minutes more for the writer… just staring, getting distracted by the Chardonnay block’s beaming and blaring beauty— inoculating a certain encouraging insanity about me. The lunch room at the insurance office, or at the drug store, or any past bloody fucking job, unworthy of proximity to this. Look at this, I order myself, “Stop typing, and look. Let that breeze teach you a new language, new inference and distinction in linguistic property.” I stop and listen. I’m in class, being taught. Again raise head, extensive rows, that hill over at Bella. Am I here, writing? Could use a glass, of what. Chardonnay. From that block. Think it’s open. Yes, I opened it for those guys from Jersey. Coming all the way out here to see what I see everyday. My office.. You’re not at work, I say to myself. This isn’t work, this is a Story, Dutcher Crossing’s story and I have met, and will never separate, even if I do one day leave I’ll still be here, this ‘here’ will be a continent in my perceptive geography.
15 minutes left. But that vineyard in front of me, this view, this non-window window purveys each minute as a universe slice. The birds around me share such fervor, encourage me to write faster, with more fire and climate. I try, but I’m distracted, l’amour et la pensée (love and thought). Rêves. (Dreams.) This is all a dream, being here, working here, writing here, sipping wine here, talking about the wines here, opening the bottles and pouring from them for people who want just a microcosmic bite of this life.