wounds and tears are characters’ Where.
The location and point of soul, of music, of life, of CHARACTER.
wounds and tears are characters’ Where.
The location and point of soul, of music, of life, of CHARACTER.
actual sitting, and actual writing moment, I sit with a beer after some macaroni avec fromage. Coffee made for tomorrow. Wrote a thousand at work, before work started, before when I was “told” to clock in. The day’s closed. After a day in Berkeley with sales team, me now seeing more. Precisely what I want after meeting a philosophy professor from UC Berkeley, his amazing home with a view of the entire bay. Was tempted to take a picture front her deck or balcony, whatever you’d call it where he told us he had coffee earlier and read the paper right there, pointing to a little table with three chic artisan chairs in the corner– view of the Golden Gate, Angel Island, Alcatraz, the Bay Bridge, the Bay… I’m in more a know’s tow, now. In this Now. Where I am on this floor with this capping of night. Feel self fading, tempted by dreams and those pillows. More than likely will spill the rest of this bottle into the drain. Philosophy Professor… me. I’m seeing different differences and contrasts… the study of where you are, what you’re doing. Why. Why are you doing that. Perhaps excessive reaction to pat, or maybe not enough… That door, that professor, where I was with one of my reps supposed to be “supervising” them but rather arranged and scattered and studying where I was, what I was doing and what was being said.. too many dimensions to here study.. Maybe in the morrow.
When, there’s always a ‘when’ attached to a ‘what’. Why is that? This is wine. It’s supposed to be easy, fun, relaxed. But no. There’s such a mis-measurement with the wine industry. It’s all fun, drinking, leisure. Paid vacation. Today’s a Friday, nothing calm about this shift. And it’s only 11:11. Everyone’s stressed; moving, spilling, reciting. Am I complaining? I guess, maybe, a little. Threats associated with campaigns and sales, goals— Yes, I get the reality, it’s a business, a job. But, if I’m “selling fantasy”, and a “lifestyle”, then any wine industry management should cultivate a mood catapulting that. Everyone sees barrels, vineyards, the tanks, wine being poured. Even the spills on the counter have their certain romantic print. Do consumers need to know this, about this conveniently contorted image? They should, really. For perspective. It’s Human, wine. It’s not about the elements facing everyone around you, in the industry, behind the scenes and what has to be done and put on a spreadsheet or one some goal scoreboard. The wine… that’s what this is about. It’s. About. The. Wine. Well, that’s what one state of mind reads, then the other yells back, “It’s a business.”
Wait, I intrude, “Aren’t both obvious?” When, was I supposed to realize either? And, what does it matter?
…sip again…. More herbal and green than the last sip, maybe even a little evidenced oxygen. Not so much attached to its character as I was with the first sip, and certainly not while tasting last night. Wine explains itself as it wants to, which is beautiful, but as a writer of wine I have to react honestly. With trenchant and poetic transparency. So, I’m tempted to pour the rest out. Should I? Or should I finish what I’ve started, the bottle… study the flaw and how the character has changed and what I as a writer of wine should do with a bottle that I don’t anymore delight in, am seduced by? Dilemma, I sip and hope something else is said but it’s clear the wine doesn’t want me analyzing it, and certainly not writing about its flaws. So I look around the room, not hearing that fly any longer, only the kids outside playing like angry chimps that somehow escaped their exhibit. The suggestions from what I sip change their shape without notice… now the cherry stage-takes more exemplary and demonstrative…
Not the energy I thought I’d have. The 6.3+ miles on tread has finally caught me and ordering me to go to bed for early-early rise. No wine tonight. Shooting for 3 pages, all to blog. Writing possibly on winery visit today, to coming semester, to the next run.
Now eating popcorn (my night cap), and sipping ice water. Only a minute or two before I turn off news, walk upstairs to bed.
Tomorrow morning… Craft, don’t let me fail. I can’t fail. Coffee made and in new tumbler mother-in-law bought just this past xmas.
I’m ready for the morrow. Giving myself a late xmas present with tomorrow morning’s session. Coffee and composition– Newness, Newness is storm-like loads.
Starting day differently. What I needed. Listening to Jack’s inexhaustible lunacy speech that makes me laugh like I’m his age and Emma’s little coos and chirps and ‘dada’s’ has me in a better writing mood and mode. Not that I was in a bad mood or anything, just tired, and focusing too much on what makes the writing father, an utter time scarcity. But watching him play reminds me I need to more play, have fun in my writing, approach all pages like a painter with new colors and canvases. It’s so much more valuable as a writer if you act more like a child and less like a predictable grown-up.
matters much more than what I didn’t yesterday.
use a nap,
And I’m here in the nook hiding behind my entry. But not so. I’ll get in there eventually I just need to keep the jazz playing and the coffee in cup.. this morning’s coffee, from the shop down the street, like I’m in the adjunct office, like it’s a work day, I’m in my role– I’ll grade all day starting at 11, 3 papers at a time, truly “Swiss-Cheese it” as Dad says.. already have rubric set up, all I need to do is mark the papers, or finish anyway. Gorgeous outside, that after rain feel, but I still incredibly am moved by the petrichor still in air, and falling from that intense blue. And I stumbled upon that word, “petrichor”, in a science journal, as it’s a new word used to describe the smell of rain; so I’m guessing it’s a noun and adjective, either way I thought I’d give it a home on page.
The coffee works but the jazz station stalls.. this isn’t helping the adjunct. There, think I got it to work– and….. There. And revisited the rubric which I will dive into in .. less than two hours. Too lazy to do exact math. It’s interesting, the relationship between adjunct and coffee. This cup, telling me to keep typing and forget about the papers, just for a minute, but then I think it orders me to go grade one, just ONE. I will, just after this paragraph.. while in RRV, I’ll take pictures, see how the vines are progressing, and see how this drought is straining our dearest vines. Don’t think the rain was enough to introduce any mold or rot, still think it’s too early for that, and maybe too early for shatter, I don’t know. That is one area I wish I was more learned in: vineyards and vineyard management and truly what’s out there stemming from the soil..
And I did it, graded ONE paper, one from the 1B section. He wrote about the connection between Plath’s Art and her eventual self-termination. First, the font looked suspiciously sizable. He has fortified points, but I thought they would benefit from that word-by-word approach with the poems, especially, and then the entries, maybe not as much focus on Bell Jar. This ‘word’ approach that I cite has benefited me greatly, this semester and a bit before, enabling me not only as writer but reader, teacher and Human.. in de-cluttering the house for our eventual and nearing move, there are certain books I refuse to stow away, and Ms. Alice this knows quite roundly. Plath is among them, with her entries and the collected poems.
The sun outside and the blue, the petrichor’d pavement and all the leaves with their newly augmented notes and songs, call me. Should I go for a drive now? Just leap out there to the car, head to the winery to get the paycheck stubs (my main and Adult/responsible/mature intention for driving there), take some pictures, maybe take the comp book and a couple papers up there and just find a new stage, some new surroundings? I can write and grade somewhere else, write?– I mean, RIGHT? I don’t have to be confined to the kitchen nook? This harsh wooden chair, paining my tuchus. Love that word, as it reminds me of Grandma.. Still can’t believe she’s been gone for well over a year, two years this June.. and now Ross.. Life too fragile. I have to just follow impulse, and not worry not fret not fear and to some extent not care, or not so much. Yes, anxiety and any worry is entirely much a cell; a jail; a still death to itself. So no thanks. The coffee, still falling into my core and I don’t let the narrative stop and just remembered I owe this day a short bit of fiction as I have the past several days and I have to print that poem as I want to share it with class tomorrow, read it to them, let them KNOW and SEE that I’m one that does, not just a ‘teach’.
Loading up backpack.. going to be a traveling driver, writer.. but to where? How ‘bout the bakery? Or Flying Goat? Or…. huh, can’t think of anywhere right now.. the bakery might work.. just need a scene shift.. and if I go to Healdsburg I’ll be nearer to Arista. Makes sense. The papers nor the students frighten me. I remember when I first started teaching I was afraid of student reaction, like they wouldn’t like me or they would tell someone, some department chair or dean that I was a horrible person and professor. Now I wildly don’t care, and just do my job (that’s what I meant earlier by ‘not care, or not so much’).
The morning calls me, calls me out, out there, under that blue, about the airborne notes of post-rain and newly glazed cement. I need to be out there, that will get the papers graded quicker, and make me proud of myself for finishing them so early, and so quick. So I ready then, after this sitting, and I’ll write while I grade, write what I find, have comments for them when I get back and welcome them to discussion (which few professors or teachers or instructors, whatever they call us, do), have them ask questions, have them ask how to strengthen their writing, how to make it explode from the page, how to have their convictions beautify the page and all the paragraphs cascading from their impulses.
Find myself now easily distracted and a bit tired. Pulled by emails and messages and this goddamn phone. I would love to murder it, make Poe proud and bury it alive. Not going to bring all the papers with me as that will only overwhelm the adjunct, put me in a bad mood and stall me further.. so I’m thinking, 20 items, pulled from stack (which I’m, again, surprised isn’t that towering, think I may be able to finish today, leaving for me tomorrow only to plan and write in the earliest of early’s, there in the adjunct office). Almost checked my phone, but no, NO! Staying away from that thing.. this is a jazz session, all my sittings be and just as the drummer and pianist can’t halt in their touches neither can this writer.
Adjunct in need of his succeeding demitasse…..