inward jot

img_3333Adjunct instructor, between classes.  How does he liven it all?  What does he do?  Write every single vision, idea, possibility and opportunity that passes through thoughts.  Emma, my daughter, this morning displaying a bit more defiance and appearing tired, wanting Daddy to hold her from car to her classroom…. Oregon, when am I going back?  Haven’t been in years and it’s because I work so goddamn much, and the schedule I currently find self in and that should change, too…. This quesadilla, why the fuck did I get it?  Fate is pages and pages, oui?  Maybe the story wants me here, eating lunch with that oddball over there, clearing his through then picking up another section of paper to read.  Why doesn’t he leave?……..  Wine, the industry… I need to be more critical of it, more analytical for people thinking they want in, that they want WINE to be their career.  I will.  Each day, I’ll have some bit of insight, or idea to share, not sure I’d call it counsel but it could seen so, on the blog.  Here’s one to start:  Conversation… wine is conversation.  Conversation entails not only listening but responding, genuinely interacting with people.  This is so many times lost or not at all present in the wine industry, tasting room an far beyond.  People so eager to show off what they know or what they think they know rather than sharing, having a conversation.  Even if you are in a “wine educator” position (and just typing that makes my skin shriek), listen, take question, invite insight.  Again, CONVERSE.  Too much fluff, not enough truth.  Truth is paramount, a pillar in what I deem conversation….  Just writing everything that comes to mind, as I said and I can’t get away from campus soon enough.  Backpack on floor next to me, tempted to pick it up but I just look at it and wonder how much longer I’ll be doing this, teaching on days off from wine life, and how much further in one direction in my wined life I hope to go.  Some might read this and think I’m in a nay-say knot.  I’m not.  Just thinking.  And when you’re my age, you do that more.

Nearly done with quesadilla, and I’m never ordering one of these flat, putrid things again. Not here, anyway.  Then two more people come in, talking not so much loudly as with intention and consistency I find annoying.  Yes, when will I leave.  I’ll collect their papers, the 1A section, and drive to pick up babies then head to Mom and Dad’s for dinner, a much needed glass of wine.  Thinking white.  Don’t see self drinking any red, if you must know.  What do I do in the next hour or so to get myself to some fun state, elevation of sight and mood, away from this room, quicker to my own office, my travels.  Write everything, everything… see one of my students on the street walking with friend, they talk about something and hug, each of them nodding head and talking a bit more.  My student, ‘M’, goes in for ‘nother hug, friend returns squeeze, then they part. Oh, this day… this day.  Me saying so much to it and about it, but the day not giving me much return.  What do I do now.  Where should I go.  I know!  Kidding, no I don’t.  Just that adjunct between classes, looking at clock.  But, this soon stops.  And I’ll stop such with my books, my paragraphs.  Only to one day come back to speak here, or wherever. 

Woman walking dog.

Guy on other side of street, with winter cap and sandals, socks.

Older woman stopping to chat with young girl, behind tree.  Oh, she’s the one with the dog.  An assistance dog, is that what they’re called?

Getting bored, again.

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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