Reaction to this morning’s story, “New Policy”…

It’s obvious, with roots in my own life, from years ago working at the insurance office, and me wishing self closer to home, near Mom and Dad, laboring in the insurance office with an agent who yes did teach me a bit about selling I guess but always loved to flex.  That he was an agent, licensed, with his own client list and office, that he was he and I was me.  At the time I didn’t have any wish to make wine, but in writing the character Jack, named after my son most obviously, I now want my own bottles.  My own label, labels, to do pouring out of state.

And the title, also teaching me something after a re-read….  My policy, of not settling, not doing something just to do it.  Not having any more jobs but a catapulting of passion and working from that propulsion.. me and wine.  Everything has to be vino, oeno-.  Wine, forever, with this story… creative in wine’s wheel, MY policy.  And above anything, even wine and writing and writing about wine, making wine… to be HAPPY.  That is everything.  Talking to Mom and Dad recently about life and the composition of one’s life, all that brings and demands, happiness is the apexing apex in priority.

The character Jack to me holds a cliff of innocence but as well determination, and a bit of ire.  Ambition has to pull in a slight venom, I feel.  And when you’ve dealt with something for so long, eventually you just say, “No.” Saying no to that desk, to the office, to the character he sees everyday.  Rick’s and his own, in that office, at that chair, with all the insurance policies and clerical obligations and specifics I wish I had more time to write, but I only wanted this piece to be about 500 or so words.  Not too long.

Funny, as I write this reaction in a quasi-cubicle, at a winery, and I couldn’t imagine again being trapped in something like this, with no life around me, no view.  Certainly no wine.  Wine forwards in defiance, in separation from occupational normality.  That’s the purpose of this story, really… separation.  From doesn’t make you happy, from what keeps you from what you want.  Wine is the liberation, the leader in autonomous act.  Wine, realizing what I have to do with my winemaking aims, wine writing aims… here in the character of Jack, and what I wish for my son.  I want my son to work, of course, but if I can I want to provide him opportunities so he doesn’t have to deal with people like Rick, whose real name was Roger.  The short story allows for teaching and sharing of ideas like this, about the workplace, as decisions to leave are usually made in an instant.  Sometimes it’s not premeditated, or designed.  You just tell them, “I’m leaving.” The office can be a spirit-polluter.  And, the only way to be cleansed is to wholly depart.  And wine, all the magical facets and specifics in her configuration and metaphysical and physical makeup, abet.

New Policy

He sits down at his desk.  That same desk.  He could do it, today.  Why not.  Why not today.  He missed the drives by the vineyards, his parents’ house that overlooked that canyon, and again with vineyards just down the road, Highway 12.  Int he East Bay all there were, freeways.  Traffic.  Angry people honking and not caring if they almost hit you with their car or actually do hit you.  He’d tell Rick that he was quitting, today.  How much notice should he give?  How should he do it?  Should he tell him, just tell him, or give some kind of lead in…

“When you get a second, I need to see you.” Rick says, hovering over his desk.  He always did that, but Jack usually saw him approaching.  But this morning he was so deep in his ‘what would he say’ inner laboratory and workshop that he forgot he was at his own desk.

Rick walks away and back into his office to make a call.  “Okay,” Jack thought, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving, I’m going back to Sonoma County.” And it wasn’t just the job, it wasn’t the insurance business, it wasn’t even really the East Bay.  He just wanted to do what he wanted, or start on his path to.  Wine.  Wine.  He wants to make wine.  He’s wanted to make wine for a few years, now.  Made wine with his sister a few years back, but it just sat in barrel and became more or less and experiment, to see how long it could stay palatable in barrel.  He dreams of his label.. his bottle types and what wines he’d make.  “Cab…. Merlot… a blend… Chardonnay like Rachel.” He always admired his sister and what she’s done, how she got to where she did, just working hard and not compromising, ever.

“Jack!  Come here, please.”

Jack’s thought stream and visuals, the inner gallery of possibility and dreams torn in half by the agent’s voice.  He walks in, knowing what he’d say.  He would do it.  Tell him. Take back his life and be back in a vineyard, starting somewhere, doing something, something with wine.. no more auto policies or deductible talk, no more working up quotes for people that know they have to have insurance but don’t want to spend money on something not at all fun….  He wanted barrels, early mornings cutting fruit from vines, a glass.

“Okay, sooooooo….  You forgot to call back a couple clients and they’re not too happy with us.  I need you to work up new quotes for Patria Mockey and Derrick Smote, and then I need you to drive out to 68th Avenue and do some measurements on a house.  What’s going on with you, lately?  Do you even want to write insurance, get your license one day, have your own office?  ‘Cause I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I’m moving back to Sonoma County.”

Rick doesn’t know what Jack just said.  Stares.  Stuck.  “To do what?”

“Make wine.  Be happy.  I don’t want this.”

Dreaming from Mission

She thinks about taking a walk but decides to stay inside.  For second, she thought there was an appointment this morning, but then realized it’s Saturday.  But she couldn’t be still.  She has bills to pay from last week and a piece to finish, one she’s hoping to set in a Marin gallery, the one Carla told about the other week.  She lays herself back in bed, grabs the sketch pages from the stand, and starts scribbling.  Starting off with lines that slope slightly to right, then turning the movements into a view of Geary Boulevard.  But she doesn’t like it.  Her first thought is to rip it up, but doesn’t let herself.  She brings it with her to kitchen, lets it watch her make a latte.

“Goddamn that clock,” he says to himself,

seeing 8:53 and he has to be on the road to work by, latest, 9:15.  Why couldn’t he have a weekend off?  Just one?  What a concept.  Things would change, he told himself, this morning, the day before his birthday.  Okay, he thought, “What would change?” When he woke up, for one.  If he woke at 4 this morning like he’d always said he would, he’d have who-knows-how-much done.  Organizing office, drawing a little in the sketch pad, finally finishing that colored pencil piece of the Bodega Bay view.  But no.  He slept too late.  Till 6.  Then the kids woke.  Then the chores poured on him like an unwarned storm.  Tomorrow would be it.  That’d be his gift to himself.  An earlier than early rise, and a new pattern, a new life, one with which he’d agree.  One from which he could better see.

8:56—  “So what,” he said.  “I’m always on time, and if I’m late I’m late, they’ll survive.” He brewed himself another cup and enjoyed what time he had.  But then an alarm, the one he forgot he set from two days ago to go off everyday right before 9, the one that told him to get in the shower, get ready for work, another day at work…..  another day at work.  He hated that alarm, that particular one, the one telling him to do something so he could rush to another location where he was told to do many things.  “This is over.  Happy birthday.”


Story 3/100

Nightly Accordion

She knew she had work to do but she had no interest, no compulsion to be responsible or produce anything.  It was New Year’s Eve, and she was in her studio, working on a deadline, designing the site for that car shop…  A car shop.  “That fucking car shop,” she called it.  She knew nothing about cars, and she adopted this client.  Why.  Why did she do it.  Money.  Always money.  And why was she still designing sites, she thought.  She said to herself, “Holy fuck this.” And stopped her work, called her cousin Paula, what was she doing, she thought, probably working on another design for her newest client.  Paula didn’t do websites as Molly did but designed clothes for companies that had new lines and specialized side projects coming out, or new projects or… Molly really didn’t know, didn’t need to know.  They were both independent designers of different folds but with one goal, to be free of everything.  Molly thought she was there till she landed this client, the one that told her the site was due on 1/1/16.  Of course, start the year off with a new website, she understood that, she guessed, but why her, why did she do this to herself?

She called Paula.  Taking a couple, few, rings for her to pick up, Molly poured herself an obnoxious glass of the Pinot she bought the other day, opened last night, she was surprised it was still so good.

“Yeah…” Paula answered.

“Did I catch you in the middle of something?  Are you working?” Molly said, before sip.

“Are you?”

“Not really.”

“Good, it’s N-Y-E…”

“I hate when people say that.”

“Thanks, how’s work going?”

“I’m not into my work tonight.  Why am I working tonight.  We should be out.”

“Out where?”

“I don’t know.. just out.”

“Everyone’s out.”

“That’s WHY we should be out.”

“No.. that’s why we SHOULDN’T be out.”

Molly didn’t know what to do but sip her glass and watch the news, the ball dropping in New York.. she’d always wanted to go there, sell some of her sketches, the black and white pencil drawings she’d been heaping over the last six or eight years, something.  “Did you open any wine tonight?”

“No.. trying to stay focused, be good.  You?”

She wanted to tell her the truth but didn’t want to be seen or heard a certain way, and she knew there was work to do, so why was she on the phone, why was she just watching the news and sipping the red that always slowed her.  The interest still wasn’t there, no push or pull to the work.  “Nope.. just getting ready for bed.”

“You know what, you should come over, have some wine with me, and we should watch the ball drop.  We’ve never done that.”

“I know…”


“I shouldn’t.  I should finish what I need to do.”

“Okay.. well… call me tomorrow.  Happy New Year, love!”

Molly didn’t respond, just ended the call with Paula.  She sipped deeply the light, floral, rosy Oregon Pinot and opened another bottle.  This one a red blend her winemaker brother bought her in South Africa.. she opened her sketchbook, drew, beginning with the image, specific as she could conjure: tip of a corkscrew diving into a cork like there was something to be found.

She hated New Year’s Eve now.  And she turned off the TV, not wanting to see any of it; not the catalyzing flares and yells, the kisses, none.  She could hear people around her apartment setting off fireworks.. she sipped again and drew more detain into the tip of the corkscrew.. she saw herself differently.. maybe she should design clothes, draw them, do something different in the new year.

She called Paula back.

“What’s wrong?” Paula said.

“I’m coming over.”

“Why?  Don’t you have to work?”

“We need to talk.  And we need to get out.”


Story 2/100

That Book

I submitted my grades and felt odd about it this time.  Not sure why.  Well I do know why but there’s nothing I can do about it now.  They were sent.  I clicked “OK”.  So I have to move on, yeah yeah…  The fallout, how bad will it be this time?  I always think of it that way, “fallout”, the students that will object to their grade, their final mark no matter how much I prove and justify and explain what I gave them.  But it’s done.  And I don’t know why I say ‘submitted’, I’m not waiting for approval from anyone.  They’re done.  They’ve ben graded.  But I shouldn’t be in this mind, I should be in theirs, what it’s like to be a student.  I remember, much as some of them think I don’t, or can’t.. the student’s story and how stressful it is, waiting for your grades, emailing the professor to see what they got and how they did, “Just wanted to know what you thought of my final paper”,  a student earlier emailed me.  And I feel like I’m doing something wrong but I know in my heart of hearts’ hearts I’m not so I have to divide and dilute my attention on this grade thing.  But this was a rough semester for me, an adjunct, three campuses and two of them far away, four classes total (and I’m sure you just felt lost in that, I did all semester).  Someone should submit something to me, preferably a full-time position.  But that won’t happen, and I don’t want to be like a student, in the student’s position, under those full-timer pigs and whomever does the hiring.  This whole adjunct thing affects my teaching and grading, and by not so extended an extension, the students.

In a new mind, looking forward to the next term.  The next set of matriculants.  And no commuting.  I won’t look forward to semester’s end, but dread it.



Solano, and my mood has seen the rollercoaster this morning, and I’m sure but not sure what it’s from, so I log more in my mood log, this collection of writings or whatever it is– I can’t surrender my visions of writing, blogging, running and growing my own business, which is what I feel like doing, to be frank.  But later I meet Glenn at the crush pad and I know my disposition and cognitive translation of the moments will change.  Just focusing on wine and making my own, selling my own bottles, going on trips to Florida or Vegas, or Seattle or North Carolina, and telling my story of an adjunct who just became fed up with the system, not the literature and not the students, not the reading or the authors, the stories… but the system itself.  So to further stretch this funk away, I think of the authors I most love, Plath and Kerouac, Hunter S., Faulkner, Poe… and how they get to me and why, I want the same for the bottles I produce, the wine I pour and how I talk about it the same way Plath tells her story and “confesses”, as so many like to label her (“confessional poet”), I’ll do so my motivation for making wine, starting my own label. 

A maintenance guy keeps walking back and forth behind me, out of this adjunct hole then back in and to some back room.  Should have stopped at the Starbucks nearby, worked there.  But I’m here and I embrace the moment I find myself in and keep writing, trying more to rid myself of this goddamn mood– think poetry, wine, little Kerouac, my family, everything I love and that forces the moody writer to smile.  That’s what will get my to the winery and my office, to the Road, sooner.  This morning spent near $10 on a breakfast sandwich and mocha– shouldn’t have but I needed to do something to make me more elevated, with a luminary mood and different disposition, do something nice for ME.  And why not, I never do.  Which is partially to my compliment as well as character corrosion.

My friend Paula yesterday, telling me of her nursing studies, how now it’s becoming more visual and tangible, more real, more than just a bloody classroom and textbook.  And that’s just what I need from wine, its world.  So…..  What’s my next move?  Start the website.. order your cards.. put more into vvv.–  Messing around with technology right now when I should only be writing, writing what’s around me, now 4 other adjuncts; one math, one English, on “medical terminology” (whatever that is)… and one more math at the table next to me.  The math man sits at one of the computers, in the chair but doesn’t look at the computer, just stares off and swivels around every so and again, sometimes looking at me which I find annoying and uncomfortable and with my fragile mood don’t see as anything positive.  Want to leave, want to get back on the Road and just head back to Sonoma.. meet Glenn at the pad and talk about nothing but wine, winemaking, how wine is pictured in his mind.  Again I’m distracted, that has to be from my state in this room; not wanting to be in here or at this school and I never will again, devoting everything to wine and writing about it and my fiction; my classes at SRJC.  It’s too late in my life for mistakes like this, taking classes at Solano or Mendo–  The math man leaves, then the woman– and I’m more centered a bit, as there’s less crowd in here, less of that adjunct film and atmosphere, that feeling of attempted passion but materialized inevitable bitterness.–  Nearly got pulled away from this page again but no.. now another adjunct enters, I think she teaches, not sure, but she leaves as soon as she opens the door.  I think she may be a student with some part-time admin role here..

And the jazz plays on for me, “Good Old Soul” by Tina Brooks, that rhythm that tells me to snap out of it, that this is my day and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to, that’s not part of the story I’m writing.. and what I’m writing is to art and freedom, wine and its trails and traversings around me day to day– the wine I sipped last night, that 2013 Rouge blend, the blaring coherence of it and the delicate but rich and assertive steps it takes on your senses.  One of the wines that reminds me of where I need to be.  And with that, I smelled the fermentation again today on my drive, it telling me to calm down, enjoy the drive and the Road and the coffee–  enjoy the days you have and all the characters and words that round themselves in your wiling envisage.  Vines, soil, barrels, the glass, the glass full– the notes I take and many times they’re just notes, arranged to formal prose later.  Now the song takes a calm turn into a piano solo, and I just want to leave, drive more, go back to my vineyard walk at Scribe, sit and write in my Composition Book, poetry and prose and a blend there in and of.

Now just two adjuncts.  Me, the other English.  She’s in the conference room, earphones in, grading papers.  I’m refusing to grade papers this morning.  I deserve a surge of moments to myself, no interruptions or distractions.  Only dreams in this early stage of day, of my wines, my travels, returning to the life of a student like Paula–  Today I’ll ask Glenn to teach me something about making wine; when something either goes wrong, or the wine is lacking something but you can’t quite pin what.  I also want to know what his approach is to “selling” the wine.

I’m picturing myself right now, in my tasting room, opening bottles, preparing for the first appointment; 4 people from GA, first time out here and certainly the first to my little Room off the Burg’s Square.

The math man comes back, sits at a different computer, begins his latest swivel pattern, reminding me of planes at an airshow.

And I feel my mood falling again– what can I do to stop it.  What can I do to shift the momentum more in my favor and more in my moreness.  And I know.. I know.  Rather than these momentary and jerked knee writings, finish something; a book.  OF ANYTHING.  That’s always slowed me– and I’m 36.  Do it al-fucking-ready.  About me about wine about writing, about teaching and becoming so disenchanted that you can’t help but curse “the profession” as they say over and over.  And think about all the people you know with their own businesses.  Literally CRAZY people with their own offices, that travel quite often and make a significant annual sum.  Are they more skilled at what they do that you with words?  With your paragraphs and poems?  Your lectures and thoughts that you have the bravery to push onto a page, share fearlessly with the world?

11 more minutes of freely writing, then I have to plan for class, go over the Plath chapters and talk to them more about this blasted CME, which encompasses “Composition Mastery Exam”.  And this is for a developmental section.  Have you ever heard of something so insane, so asinine?  MASTERY?  What a joke.  Anyway, I do have to prep a bit, the maybe get some more coffee from the caf’, or at least some water.  How about water to calm me down.  I’ve had enough caffeine.  How I can’t wait to get out of here, for the semester to end, to never have to come back to this bloody dingy campus again.

And the math man was just staring at me.  I hate it here more than I can articulate.


I looked back up at him.  “Hi”

“Hi,” he said.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m not looking at you.  There’s an interesting picture behind you.”

“Whatever,” I thought to myself.  Still rude.  Still uncomfortable.

Beatifically Mad Again

This morning, oh this morning with my little technology skirmish and remembering last night with Mom and Dad and the wines we opened and surveyed, Dad speaking of the Devil Proof Malbec as one of if not the best wine I’ve ever put before him.  And those are the the caliber wines I hope to soon make for my admirers– or not even those admiring my writing or wines, just those lending me their time to taste and interact with my efforts.  Feel like I’ve already had too much coffee this morning but the Beat brews himself another cup.  This morning jotted some thoughts while Alice relaxed on the couch, stretching out her legs rubbing her stomach communicating gently but intently with little Emma, Jack running around with his lucky rock and a quarter– “Wine from removed objective, perspective; which includes no sipping, small or significant, nothing, taking a full step back and simply observing; the sippers and their questions, their trips and their planned tastings, how they talk to each other at the bar and how they wish they could stay out here just one more day, not go back to work and how if only they could win the lotto and move out here, just drink wine and eat wonderfully like that’s all the people of Healdsburg and Sonoma County do.” So many visions and entertainments cognitively and analytically yesterday in the Sanglier tasting room and more today to be sure, from talking about the wines or just watching people pass the tasting room, not wanting to come in for whatever reason.  Wine and my relationship with it, my “end game”, making my writings more “evergreen” as Sean the editor put it.  I’m changing I realize as a character, a precise beatific remolding of my mold and manuscript from day to day, questions and answers, submissions of assignments to myself and my readers, and one day my babies reading my work, like a student again me the writer professor whatever I’m calling my self this week.

Haven’t sipped the coffee yet, afraid to, don’t want to jitter with too much jolt to be sure, or unsure, who’s really sure of what they want and how they see themselves in 10 years.. me, 46, is that even possible?  Time will have its way and victory and I loathe it for that in so many tactical ways–  There, sip 1, small and polite, not too loud.  The mornings I’d spend in the Kenwood market parking lot or the overflow lot at the old winery, in my head now thinking of how that seems like a far forever ago but I’m here now in my home office listening to Hutcherson’s tunes as I do, like I did then before work, with one of those breakfast burritos and sparkling waters or Dr. Peppers, venomizing my words and thoughts toward that place and why I was there at 35, with a wife and son and still in a condo– “Why don’t I have my own business yet?” I remember so many times writing and blogging and saying to myself as I’d walk through those two tall doors to the tasting room, my peace broken having to leave the quiet concentration of my car writing to be a clock-controlled bot.  But no more.. with the Autumn Walk and mikemadigancrEATive shop I have too many new beginnings, new promises and stories.  I can only be Zen, wrapped in my anti-Nietzschean melodies and scales played on this neo-underwood.  I wish.. just another piece of technology I’m dependent upon.. so badly want to write like Kerouac, with complete and vocally blazing autonomy, no device doting, but I can’t I’m in this time and at this desk, but I see the class half full.  And half is as good or glorious and completion, a heaping wave of fortune and blessings [pardon the word, if you know me and my Agnostic folding)–

So lovely writing freely this morning, with this jazz and coffee, my little notebook and nothing else.  Found an old picture of Jack yesterday or the day before of him sitting up, less that a year old, holding one of my Composition books.  Three years ago, more, and here I am how did I get here and why doesn’t time just slow down for the writer/winemaker just a little bit.  Another note from this morning: “Disgusted by pop culture music its lazy ways and instant attention and fame and praise while real writers and thinkers hurt & hunger”.  It truly does make me sick.  I have to exercise more crEATivity.  Especially with my new hostility toward academia.  Solano being the prime evidential submission, how they boast they support adjunct faculty and promote all this activism but put such poster or quasi-banners in the most unnoticed and trafficked areas.  How is that support?  And not only that, stick us in that pen, that holding cell.  I won’t let it ruin my morning– I’ll write faster and with more creative craze than any of those sweatyhog full-timers.  And what can they do?  I mean, if you truly pose that question and dissect and explore hypotheticals, you notice ‘nothing’.  They can’t touch us.  As with me, we can leave the profession and more than likely be better off.  As some full-timers may have wine or something else as a hobby or sidejob, I do the same reversed.. winemaker and writer just teaching for fun.. truly for the love of students.

I stretch and breath and love my morning even more.  Another small tilt of my coffee cup and thinking about the day of content and material in front of me I smile, for me and Jack, Ms. Alice and Ms. Emma when she arrives, just over two months ahead of now.  My little girl, sure to be immensely proud of her writer/winemaker father, rising early like farmers and winemakers during harvest, never stopping for anything or anyone.. just working and building the story as winemakers build their brand and story and explore varietals, further specializing their tone and talk and grapetrot–  MY beat intensifies this morning and me along the keyboard, pretending it’s an underwood, that I’m Kerouac, the next morning after some party or some interaction with another beat–  I want to stay at this desk all day but I know I can’t I have to be out there gathering, hunting materials and characters, those tourists that step to the bar for the first time, saying how much they love the wine, how they can’t wait for their shipment to arrive at their house, sharing the wine at a table– new thesis for me as a consumer, keep exploring; keep with the questions; forever be a student of Life and wine and writing, Literature– bring the new Kerouac novel to the tasting room, be a Kerouac– or no: more a MADIGAN.

Stretching again and letting another jazz track play before stopping and getting in shower.  In this morning’s session, nothing can hurt me– nothing, no obligation or bill or deadline, no assignment or hostile student, no client or anything.  No weather no taxes no threats, no impending El Niño.  No. Thing.  A writing session at the Oakville grocery sounds sumptuous in its own angularity today but I won’t.  I will stay behind that Sanglier bar and pretend it’s my TR, my winemaking efforts being sold and disseminated.  And what a story of Glenn, a farmer once in the corporate world, rewriting his story and having everything go as he wanted it to, how he measured– “If I told you, I’d sound arrogant,” he once said when I asked him if this is how he saw it developing, how his business and move from Texas forwarded.  And just as he saw, and how could that be seen as arrogant, his response?  Only admirable.  What he did, the “re-write” if you will, is just what I’m doing, what’s been set in motion with mmc, and the new blog– the visual approach to wine and its scenes and shots.

And like that.. onto page 3 you find me.

Stairs and Stars

He waited for his son to wake, with coffee.  He couldn’t sip yet.  Still with such smolder.. light blows on surface.  But he enjoyed the quiet.  Then he was up.  There was no more quiet, now only love for the chaos and catapulted conversation that was set to surround– the sharp paradiddle of sprints on the floor above.  He went upstairs to see him, what project he’d assigned himself now.  “Look, Dada!  Look at me!” he said, standing on the table, with quarters and pennies, and other coins he’d taken from Daddy’s work bag, in each hand, a couple coins falling, Dillon watching them fall with hands still extended out and up, fists closed packed with currency.

“Get down, buddy, be careful…”

“Daddy.. um.. Daddy, you help me?”

Daddy lifted him from the table, onto the floor.

“Daddy, let’s read books..” They both sat and he went through all his books, all his books, each one, taling them all from the shelf then rearranging them in little vertical piles in the thin, long white shelves that were set on the floor, still there from when they first moved in.  Daddy watched him look through the books, narrate where he wanted to for only a couple seconds then move to the next book.  Daddy noted each movement, studied and envied.  Why couldn’t he see everything as he did?  Why did he lose it and at what age?

“Hey Daddy, this book a special book!  A real special book for me!”

Daddy watched some more, helped him arrange the little manuscripts in their set piles– “No Daddy, you have to do like this,” he said, showing Daddy how to do it professionally and to Dillon’s right-then-and-there instituted standards.

Then they went downstairs, to Daddy’s coffee cushion.  Now cold but he didn’t care.. the chaos was too colorful and too educational.  Checking the time he saw he soon had to get ready for work–  “Hey buddy, daddy’s gotta get ready for work.”

“No no no work daddy, not today, okay?”

Good idea, Daddy thought.  No work today.. just more time in the new upstairs library, with his new teacher.  More to lean, more to be taught.

More to love.


Out early and now I sit

in the conference room here at SRJC thinking of everything I have set in motion, and how I turned the day and my mood, and a mood that could have demolished my day if I let it have its way.  But no.. the new blog/startup is up and running, one post only as of yet, and so much more material, visually-driven material on its way.  Tomorrow’s the freeway flyer day, where I drive to Fairfield, stop for a quick break in SR, then head to Mendo…  Won’t look at it that way, though, but more of a day of gathering content, translating everything on the drive and at both campuses as a winemaker.. my “end-game”.  So…..  Right now in the conference room, it’s bland, no flavor, not a lot of life until I see a full-timer walk in, Anne-Marie, who used to be an adjunct like me but hung in there and refused to let the system deter her.. she attended professional development workshops, sat on panels and committees, and now she’s resolute, one of the tenure-track team.  So how would I translate her in wine terms?  A gentle but assertive Viognier, oak’d but not to a point of interrupting fruit message, to symbolize her strength, supported by her experience and dedication to students and her teaching practice.  I would not ferment it dry, my personified Viognier, but leave just over 1 gram of RS to bolster floral suggestion and convey her amiable and sweet disposition..

This room is not a wine, but more the barrel for someone like me, the confident and nearly confrontational Cabernet.. robust, bold, nearly cocky but with poetic principles..

No wine tonight.  Maybe a beer on the patio with the little Artist for tradition’s sake, but nothing from the oenoverse.  Going to search through my material, wake early tomorrow and write about the wine I’ll sip this weekend, maybe invite people on the block over for a bit of a tasting.. perhaps in the garage– no, the kitchen.. I’ll pour five wine.. two whites, three reds, see what they think.. a wine event on the Walk.