Have a glass from my last Arista RRV Chardonnay bottle. Reviewing notes from class, delighting in final quiet. A new quietude around me after a day of diligent skirmishes with kids, who aren’t doing a thing wrong just want my time, me, their daddy.
Not letting self watch anything tonight—Fuck this wine’s amazing… am I turning into a Chardonnay-stay? Anyway… notes on the day.. prospecting. The businesses I looked into, more and more having me see my own shop, office, base, chair and desk.
Just want quiet, alone… quarantine teaches more than it frustrates. I need the shop, I need the quiet… the wishlist doesn’t necessarily expand, the same wishes stomp but now with a certain emphasis, exponent. Wake earlier, earlier than anyone else in this house is up, for my own onus and godly something. So I can be with only ME.
Only in the mood to talk about wine, and not any one bottle or varietal, vineyard or vineyard block, certainly no one winemaker… just wine as a reality, tell, promise and set of verses.. songs and skies, ground rocks roads and sudden fronts that encroach and drop drops as they will. I used to say I explore wine’s definition, as I understand it. Not re-define wine, I’m not smart enough to so do. Wine is this room, here with me in a pervasive and shapely symmetry of inclusion, tangible illusion.
I feel bad for my students, as I do for myself with an empty wine glass. Our classroom is empty. We’re not there, because of this thing. This virus, and quarantine… Are they getting a “quality education”? They’re not getting ANY education, I’d offer…. Yes, their instructor or whatever is present and interacting with them, but I need to be WITH them. In a room. Yes, I’m getting a check and I guess I should keep my mouth shut but I won’t. And why should I. I’m an adjunct. I don’t have a class in the summer, and I sure as fuck don’t have one in the fall. So am I trying to go out with a “bang”? No… I’m aiming to conclude the term with honesty, and presence, and offering my candid and unfettered thoughts on writing and reading, journaling, capturing ideas, essays, sketches.. just writing and noting truth with which you intersect in your story.
10:02….. Cap to be poured, then to bed with journal at bed’s side. I don’t do that enough… and I don’t jot when I wake to use the restroom or flashedly from some dream. This morning, up at 5 something, noticed the birds sounded different, and didn’t write. And I did have the tablet close… and then, back to sleep. Coffee made, need to buy more. I used my last two fucking k-cups.
Staring at my glass.. Chardonnay. Still funny how I drink it now, when so many times I’ve noted how I detest any interpretation of. Think I should write only on Chardonnay. Forget wine, just what’s in this glass, tonight… how my sister built her career, in my eyes and notes, remembrance of anything Katie… she picked Chardonnay early as fuck in the morning, and was recognized for so. So all occasions where I sip this, I think of her, and how at Dad’s 70th she gave an intro to everyone there, to the wine, that she made it thinking of Mom… I have to open the shop, I have to write only about wine. That’s what quarantine has reminded me. Maybe not ONLY wine, but I have to open that shop and post more to the vvv blog. Tonight collimates what I’ve already know, or have thought so.