Morning Winery Thinking….

After the morning thousand, I arrive to winery and feel odd.  Off.  And not sure why.  So, up to office, across the dark and spooky crush pad and production area, and here I am.  Writing that I’m not sure I should be writing, but then considering my attitude how to fix.  Find humor.  In all this.  “You work at a winery,” I say to myself, “how hard could it be?” I agree.  But the feeling stays, not able to shake it, I decide I don’t want to talk about the ‘I’ anymore.  Happiness is conceptual, but actual, and more actual and tangible if we want it to be, really.  You don’t have to see what’s around you the way you do, do you?  No.  See the day as a game, or a play, or some show evolving before your sight and you involve yourself however and wherever you elect.

Let the morning teach you.  Let it teach you everything you thought you already knew about the morning.  Let’s say you’ve already decided today’s going to be long, drawn-out, the usual humdrum doldrum.  Let the morning, the day following, show you it doesn’t have to be— that it won’t.  Take your mood and scrap it, trash it, dismiss it.  Don’t let it let itself stand up, develop or play its putrid song.  Actually, take it upon yourself to teach the morning what you’re not just capable of but what you WILL do.

More into my usual confident and loudly assured ride, stride.  Listening to music, sipping the hotel’s coffee, and wondering what’s going to be narrated from day.  What people will say in reaction to the wines, the property.  Onus…. What I every semester stress to students and now see I need more enact and actuate.  Re-writing… now.  ME.  The morning, day…. The wildest of wild yay-says.

12/16/17:  06:45. 

img_7652Up much earlier than I thought I’d be after last night’s work, and wine, and principle restlessness.  Made cup of coffee from that cheap, one-cup-maker they put in this room and I’m guess all the rooms.  Not sure why I’m up so early but the same creative and thought intent of last night shimmies and shakes and stomps in my head.  Questions like, “What am I doing?” And “What do I do next?” And, “Is this it?” Not depressed, sad, or ashamed of anything, just putting self in the Philosophy Major’s shoes, I guess.  Or with his “thinking cap” on, as Dad has always said.

39 next year.  So I guess now I begin the countdown I do every year, right?  Okay… 13 days, 5 months.  That’s my time to do something… something. To get on the Road, to travel, to speak.. if I don’t do it by that age, I’ll never bloody do it.  Don’t say that.  Put self in the student’s shoes… how about, don’t think about yourself.  There’s a challenge.  And that is a challenge for a writer like me…. All moments are standalone pieces, their own lessons and classroom, pulpits for reflection and meditation.  This morning teaching that I need ignore time, and think more inclusively— it’s your story, but not just you.  It’s not.  There’s so many around me, so many people that tell me things that shape my character and students I see shamefully only twice a week but teach me so much about my presence in the classroom and what ought transpire there.  This morning as well instructs that I be as little like anyone else as I can… to just be.  Me.  Wild and crEATive, and see every day like a classroom session.  There, here, to learn.

Approaching 07:00.  Still see my walk from last night, just to casino and back.  All the lights and sounds, the traffic and people honking at each other, not moving enough sped for the person behind or around them.  Not sure what that taught, but I much prefer collections like this where I wake so much earlier than I thought I would, and jab to writing, my work, where I feel safe and honest, supported and cognitive.  Coffee already losing its volcanic temp, a bit.  Wish I had the whole day, to move some of my life, our life, back into the Autumn Walk Studio.  Focus on the moment… right here, now, 4 minutes from 07:00.  What do I write, what am I writing about, why am I writing it, and what is the writer to do next?  Wine… of course not drinking any now, but I can still sense the Devil Proof on my Personhood and page, the dark, rich slightly caramelized wingspan of the fruit and oak’d music and jazz… like I noted last night, “inexplicable”.  Not sure what to say about her.  I’ll hopefully pen something today, make it I guess “official”, get myself closer to the Road and my office with that bottle from my old friend.  I like how “Malbec” isn’t on the label, or not that I can remember.  Wait… is it?

Just checked, looking at the bottle.  No.  No “Malbec” boast, anywhere.  Re-read the saying on the back, living well and drinking well makes you “devil proof”.  Then I think of definition, what consists of and in the wellness of such an idea.  Thinking too much, I know.  Just live.  Never exist.  Vowing that all movements and writings, be terpsichorean.  WE all should.  Like the person you see essentially skipping down the street and you don’t know why, and you wonder what they’re so happy about.  Just be.  BE.  In this hotel room there’s only me, the jazz, this cooled and cooling coffee and my vision for day.  What’s in it.  What’s the day to be about other than me at a winery, me writing about wine and thinking about my students and what they’re doing or not doing to their papers.  Should I keep the second blog or kill it?

Found a video I shot last night walking down the road, me reflecting on where I am and how I’m by myself, and how my daughter’s two, just how life continues without much regard for how we sometimes want it to slow.  But that’s what wine reminds me, just get out there and do what you want.  Don’t be a follower, don’t be a leader, be your own creator and actuator.  I made. Remark yesterday pertaining to Chardonnay, told a very nice couple that “I’m not in that audience”, referring to the consumers that love that angry tidal wave of a malolactic mummy… the buttery paradigm, or “butter slug” as I call it.  Forced a chuckle from the gentleman, lady as, but forced me into thought, pouring the reds after that Santa Rita Burgundy…. What audience AM I in?  What audience am I targeting?  Is it just those wanting to read, write.. is it students?  Other teachers?  Wine people?  “Wine lovers”?  Or, maybe it’s just for people in love with life and all in it… that they see all moments not just as standalone pieces for reflection and appreciation, but as times that will never again transpire, ever.  Maybe my writings are for people who just love life.. who love their own lives, and see all seconds and minutes and collective and individual times as invitations to see themselves better.  To love all around them et everything they have.

“Bonjour!” Just wrote self.  Not sure why.  Maybe to remind self that the day’s started.  Remind yourself of where you are, reader… look around you… all around you.  This will never happen plus jamais (again). So you need look further into it, its significance… do something with your moment, right now, before it away scurries and denies you a re-live.  Need get into shower.  See?  Just because I’m writing about how time passes doesn’t mean I’m immune.  Have to move quicker and with more measure and meditation.  Least I won’t hit traffic today.  I should stop by house on way home, I mean ‘to hotel’, drop some things off.  Would that be the best put of my time?  Is my time “mine”, even?

Coffee gone.  Get up.

inward jot

One of the last nights in hotel.  And as it happens, I’m alone… sipping 2015 Devil Proof.  My good buddy Jesse’s passion project, and that picture, of the Cuban woman laughing, telling me to relax in this room and not worry about the fading time, that I have to work tomorrow and set up for a tasting— don’t worry about what to do with the blog.  Life is something to be lived, in the moment, spontaneously and moments molded as they’re presented and sung to you, not excessively planned.

Dinner done.  Burger from downstairs diner, had beer in bar while dish was prepared— dish, more like bag, box—and listened to the conversations around me.  Hoping I wake earlier enough to type and write, sip coffee in this room, looking down at the parking lot and out at Rohnert Park.  Can’t believe the hotel story closes.  Don’t me wrong get, I’m more than more-than-happy to be back in the Autumn Walk Studio, but it’s over.  No more walks to Chili’s for last-minute dinn’… no more hurries to that Walmart for razors and baby wipes.  No more “Dada breakfast” as little Kerouac had it tagged.  Not sure why this registers with me as it does, and did I get enough of this segment, this installation in the fire-prone joust with my life.  Here I am… need another sip, casually, from a $100+ bottle that I sip to write to and I do as it’s pulse and hue, key and chords prove inexplicable, as I told Mom.

And I’m back at the question, what do I write about.  God-fucking-damnit.  Thought I resolved that.  “Wine”.  Was my answer.  But now I see it not.  Literature, Life, me, Parenting…. This is all a story that I have trouble decoding.  Glad I’m not too full from the downstairs order, as I need make progress tonight— jazz very much in its cue, and me relaxed, not with the usual equation of Jack and Emma having a bath then getting them into their pj’s, the Alice and I laying on bed while Emma so slowly goes to dreams in her hotel crib and Kerouac so easily fades right to this writing daddy’s side, right, and I think of what I have to do and if I have to iron clothes in the morning, will they have coffee in the lobby next morning, do I have any coffee left in this room… shit like that.  Realizing Time won’t stop for me even for a bit, even while I try to relax it hexes me, disrupts and disturbs, severs my relaxed flash.  I won’t resits but write within what I’m stuck.  Need more wine.  More of that Katz collusion.

See one of daughter’s Lego pieces, right, and see I’m getting older— She’s 2.  TODAY.  Need be more into my work, need more wine, and I know what you’re thinking— What’s that have to do with getting more into your work?  —  You’re not a Beatnik, so I don’t need you answer.  Hear doors closing in halls, upstairs and this floor.  We’re leaving soon.  I need capture as much of this hotel as I can, maybe go downstairs at some absurd hour, drinking coffee at 03:00 or something and just account what I count, what I log and see, who walks past me.

Taking a break from grading. 

Need it.  Allowing self, gifting self, ten minutes to collect, write for a bit, brainstorm on going forward with my new goals in education.  Writing about Keoruac, Plath, Hughes… Shakur.  I’ve been bitten again, by this bug, this teaching bug, this bug that wants me to put everything into teaching and education, but not at any risk to family, or my position in the wine world.  Truly, wine has shown me that literature is where I belong.  No.. I’m not quitting my wine life, not at all.  Why would I when I view wine as the most literary entity I’ve ever known, in many respects and angles more than a book, literature itself.  Don’t have time to get into that now, but I’m targeting Stanford… beyond.  Harvard, Yale, Colombia, with my papers, my thoughts and lectures on my focus authors.  And it may be more than merely the four.  I haven’t decided.  I do need soon decide, though.  Come to some conclusion.

Don’t want to return to grading, but I have to.  Want to get these goddamn paper stacks that I brought on myself out of my life.  Just under six minutes left in break.  Organized stack.  Put everything in one, I guess you could say “stack”.  This will give me more an accurate picture and professing, telling of where students are.  Will print role sheet… offer the quote I was going to offer the other day.  Feel myself changing, and it started with that post from one of my wife’s friends that she’s close to tenure.  And then, others telling me that I embody the unionization of work and passion (student sent me a message, a “meme”, through a social medium, yesterday, saying just that… this again told me).  I’m being told, taught by where I am, here in the adjunct cell.. not a cell.  MY office, right now, here me a teacher.  Kerouac told us to think from the most bottom part of our minds…. I remember, and there is the image of me saying in high school that I’ll be a writer, professor, at Stanford.  Going to be 30-fucking-9 next year.  Re-write.  RE. WRITE.

Loving Blurb….

Love your mornings.  This morning teaching me that I can re-write, and I will, I’m going to, right now.  What can stop me?  Nothing.  And, nothing wants to stop me.  Don’t see things like that.  Everything is encouraging me, loving me, loving my passion for words and teaching, students and my babies, family and health, reading, writing… all my yay-saying yells and professing—

Love is with me, this morning.

So, je gagne.

Less than an hour till class.  Ordered books for next term.  Ready for meetings, for the students that show.  This morning tells me to focus only on about what I’m most passionate, devoted, interested in— elevated connection and loyalty of effort.  To keep writing and learning.  I’m not a teacher, I’m a LEARNER.

Looking through old notes, I see ones for winery like “clean umbrellas” and “wipe down counters” then other jots for classes and self like “Emerson words: rewrite”, and “Reading is the most creative act.” I know where I need spend more time.  And anyone who knows me knows this is NO surprise.

Life… so short it makes me fucking sick.  So I’m going to move quicker, for me yes but more for my family… my little babies.