Getting restless, and agitated waiting for something to happen in this office.. going for a walk, to tasting room, to pour and sell and gather mental material.

7:15PM.  And ready for a long night of writing and organization, consolidation and work at home.  To wine, relaxing, readying Self for a run in the morning.  Currently in conference room, sitting at the upper part of the ’T’ formation of the tables, quieter than death in this hall.  Or at least this floor.  Or this part of the floor.  I’m in my own universe now, at this time on the clock which tries to assault me with 7:17PM but I respond back, “I have till 7:40 to write, devil!” And I relax, basking in confidence that no industry drone can reach with its pseudo-authority or title.  I’m beyond empowered in this room, as it’s MY room, all these books and old computers, MINE.  The SRJC English department, its mailroom and copy machine, old chairs and this outdated ’T’ formation of tables, this author’s…  All of it.  And I just took pictures to show you and remind myself of the power I feel right now.  But, my vision and envisage pans to wine, the vineyard, and how in love I am with vineyards…

I want tonight’s wine to say something, to be both a wine and producer I’ve either never had or have only once had.  I’m dying for an inspiring Pinot, one with an instructional quality that I can only write to.  After today, being in the office for as long as I was (which I was very happy to do, the winery giving me the esteemed opportunity, frankly, to be the resident writer.. was just tired today), I need a wine that raises my mood even further than it is now.  I swear to you, this solitude is like caffeine, my favorite kind of coffee, like a 4-shot mocha on a cold morning, like the ones I would order before the 7:30AM English 5 last semester.  Right now, I only hear some bent, AC I’m guessing although I don’t feel any air slithering and wrapping around my immediacy—  I hear the clock just ahead of me, over the doorframe that sets the border for conference and mail/copy room.  This is a warping of the day, where as hours ago I was perturbed, waiting for something, something to happen and something, some story, some occurrence, to just pummel me and make me write.  But nothing.  And that’s my problem.  I waited…  “Fucking idiot,” I say to myself, rolling eyes, then refocusing on that file cabinet.  What’s in there?  Only thing I’ve ever needed from it was a change-of-grade form.  But what else is in there?  Certainly nothing they’d not want seen.  But my imagination goes everywhere— What if they know that’s what I and those like me, adjuncts in my position and with my pugilistic edge, would think.  What if all the secrets of some secret full-timer society are in those sliding rectangular 1980s-looking holders?  What if it’s all in there?

The clock taps my right eye again, “7:28.” it says.  Should start my edits—  Though I don’t want to.  I don’t want to be some cannibal editor of my own work.  So I’ll do a light read, lightly reading and reading with light intensity, not too intently.

I need a beer.

And a Pinot when home.

Needing something to happen.  Again.

(6/28/16)