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.

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?

First thought…

The Malbec from last night, just the wine I’d want to make. 06:30 now, coffee made, and I’m thinking of wine. Tempted to take it to work and share, but I don’t want to share even a droplet from that bottle. Will come home, or ‘hotel’, and see how she’s speaking. I don’t want much to change, if anything– texture, song, fruit-scape, that leathery light at sip’s start to non-end… can still taste her now. All shapes and geometries of her way–

My first thought, before anything in day ignites, is her.. wine. Art. A bottled gallery of emotion and effort, task and memory.


img_7455Ten minutes left.  Which means I have 5 to write.  Coffee, cold, right.  Waiting for Washington wines to get here.  Friend said they should be arriving today.  Need more wines to write about…. Store not as far away as it might appear on paper.  Or maybe it is.. but either way I’m writing about wines as crazy as the writer’s able.  Want to taste the ’15 Cab we have in TR, again, one more time…. Ideas again accosting me with encouraging viciousness.  What can I do but keep with my written reap.  Sounds from the crush pad, even louder than this morning.  Want to walk around and take pictures, get closer to the barrels and tanks, see what’s transpiring as its transpiring, just walk around and be like an annoying tourist but not at all, educated in what they’re doing, fully aware, but not at all.  I want the best of all worlds working at this winery— seeing everything for the first time and being proactively active and pervasively educated in the images that land on my lenses.

The Zin downstairs, again, speaking to me in its tone, that defiant and more texture-intended angularity.  Thankful it met me, and I it.  Zinfandel… not sure if I’ve had more a troubled past with her or Chardonnay.  Either way we wind up together, smitten and in a sensory snuggle and me writing my crazy notes in the tasting room even if there’s a guest or three in front of me.  Musical, all the wines today, like some grand collaboration between Miles and John, Bobby and Cannonball.  Everything to a poet sings, from the cork opening to me taking the worm out of the cork, smelling it, slight purple stamp at nose-tip, then first taste.. imagining a scene, a breeze, some balcony, me, ‘way, ink to paper—