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.

Freewrite, 12/12/17 — 

Posted a couple articles, sipping my 4-shot mocha slow, and over 2 hours and ten minutes left on the timer, 3 hours given to self from self for some time to and for self.  Need this quiet, after the crazed morning with Jack and little Ms. Austen.  In the adjunct cell, “dead week”, but I refuse to be or act like I’m dead.  Mayor Ed Lee, dying of a heart attack I heard in a Safeway.  Just reminded me… you never know.  So while the writer’s here, I’m going to be here.  I’m going to be fully present, fuller than fully.

Mocha getting cold, but I’m increasing in overall climate.  Ready to meet with students… need remove my legal pad, take some notes, review notes in these other little notebooks I’ve accrued…. Work on writings I intend to sell.  And I do intend to sell, soon, get ahead with my finances and investments.  Want to be both teacher and business bloke, investor, maybe even VC but that I think could be too risky.  I know… one step at a time.  Met some people in the tasting room the other day that talked about wine they poured at their investor club meeting.  Thought of asking them to elaborate but then saw I didn’t need to.  I can understand it for myself and make it my own.  Be my own club.. invest securely, not too safely… but security’s my prime pillar.

Ideas for notes so I put them in the little collection I’ve been chipping away at, sort of, for the past few months.  Still over two hours… thinking of going for a walk, getting another coffee, but the cold has me in here.  I need stay in the chair like I tell students.  If I stay, I later get to play— with my wined notes or other crazy creative courses I choose to do.  This morning rewards me for my patience and diligence with the little beats.  Writing more freely than I ever have.  Not worried about coherence or any other of the principles I promote in class.  This could be an article, my third of the morning, or it could just be a freeing write, something much more than an article— more storm and story, thunder and bluster, value.

Jazz in my ears.  Need a break… study… read something.  Study my past masters.. Kerouac and his thesis of enjoying your life, every minute of it— all minutes.  The seconds… when they pass they pass, they’re gone and they don’t care how I’m impacted.  What I’m teaching is not teaching but a sharing of realizations as I have them.  I’m realizing that I only have so much time and I don’t know when it’s up.  So why not be crazy… why not be wild… why not be FREE?  I’m not even asking ‘why not’ seriously.  I’m just doing it— Went out to get a pen from office supplies, department’s, in the mailroom, or copyroom… what do they call that room?

pensée du vin

20:14. Hate that I can’t think. In hotel. Kids asleep… A little of the Corliss left. Will have that then bed. Can’t remember what day it is in the wine shop countdown, but I’m already significantly into its write. Going mad in this hotel room. Why can’t they paint our house faster– I mean, it’s painting. I’m rude, and speaking from no experience which just makes me an asshole, and idiot. Not sure which of, more. Have to taste more wines, study more vin businesses. MAKE MORE MONEY.

Ah…. and after a slow, meaningful wave of my love, that Carliss Malbec… I’m back to my maniscript’d nuit. Quiet… but not the same as in the Autumn Walk Studio. Wife waking early tomorrow for her workout class. Hope I wake with, if anything to just write the wildest jots and maniacal lines on wine, SHE pushing me to write this way.. this tempo and rhythm and compliment to second, day, dream, hour ever.

Defining her.. I’m not concerned with if it’s possible. The possibility/plausibility, any likelihood of cementing a definition isn’t true concern to this writer. More an exploration– but that sounds too familiar.. then what am I doing with wine, purposing so much of my life to her– writing, time in the tasting room, social moments, photography, family, and whatever else. What is the intention, whether conscious or un-? Before I can “define” her, I have to know ‘why me’, first. Why am I sipping her now in this hotel room? Why did I spend over 8 hours at a winery, today? Why am I not putting more into education, teaching at the JC? Can I define me? Or, am I mostly connotative composition?

She’s the ignition behind this inquiry. The lights to a contemplative Road. Think the Malbec’s gone… what am I feeling. Not lachrymose but… I don’t know. What– Could I describe it? Will I? No… keep writing, like Brian told me. I will. And I don’t really hope at all I find anything. Especially not an answer. And all forbid a bloody definition.