Watching the rain over a random vineyard in Dry Creek,

img_0066I remembered why I’m here, and why I teach and share ideas.  Promulgate positivity with JC students and come home and think further about what I sip, what I write and note on this blog.  ’17 already has the writer contemplative more than usual, assuredly more than ’16 with all its marred and tarred categorizations and codes.  The rain still rallying down upon Santa Rosa, and I just listen like an over-relaxed diarist in my Autumn Walk Studio, babies and wife asleep upstairs– me selfish, thinking about what I want, career and job and vocation and avocation… when do I get a bloody vacation?

One more glass before I go to bed and not to add to any buzz (as I don’t have one), but to further harness Self to the immediacy of the Now, this present in this room typing on this odd keyboard that’s not mine but my wife’s late-grandmother’s.  Like winemakers maybe getting booked to make wine at another facility they’re not entirely comfortable with, or unfamiliar with, or it doesn’t feel altogether apt in some small regard.  But I’m here typing, thinking about how the day started, me typing an article on my phone ’cause my goddamn laptop is still in its cripple-curve– just do what I do, like vines in the rain or intense heat.  I’m working, that’s all I know, seeing rain on my hood, windshield, Zin and Cab vines just a couple dozen yards away.

You may or may not know I teach at the JC.  English, Composition, Literature… and then there’s wine–  Well, I should say it like that.  Whole reason I’m in the wine “industry” is for the stories, the characters and collective character of wine as it stretches about Dry Creek and all Sonoma Valleys and into Napa, up to Mendo’, along the coast.  The wine teaches me materially more than I teach my students.

Glass empty, and I think it’s best.  Need wake early and finish work for client and some material for me, this tireless writing daddy getting tied but pushing himself to rain like the rain he this morning watched and just gawked at.  Yes, he’s jealous of rain.  But honestly, we should all be jealous of rain, its influence on terrain and vines, on people and their moods, on traffic and vision and how writing reacts to it– it’s a wonder and character to be studies far beyond meteorological interests.

I go back to the vineyard, look at my notes, remember how the rain looked from those cordons, how the soil was spun and spent.  This is just a writer’s whim and windings, wondering what else is out there to see in this rain–  Rain, more than those corny weather reports you see on channel 3 or 5, or 7, or wherever.  The rain is a determinant. For mood and wine and art, for me and the mobility of my runes.  My students would understand such distraction, listening to that pouring down the side of the structure.  But, to work.  This, intended.  Not even microcosmically random.

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