a thousand wines project



A syncopated scene-stepper with savory rhetoric and abnormally attractive palate math.  She flies in with that charcoal charm and chocolate-tuned geography, jazz from one minute to next before transmogrifying into atmospheric and ambient space, sound, texture yes… but stare.  Her glare proves formidably but not forcefully.

All a rhythmic Durif sea, indeed.  Eased beat as I head nod to said soft lot and I’m caught.  She has me taken and taught, shaken and lost.  More bright with an additional swirl, glass tango and at an angle.  Pour more amour… What I needed at day’s close.

Home and sipping the Longboard Sauvignon Blanc

img_1968Jesse gave me the other day.  Don’t feel too pained from run, but a bit tired from day in sum and the dinner Alice and I just had.  Only had two tacos, shrimp, but I don’t know… I’m tired.  Tomorrow back in room, and have to force self to take more tasting notes, more crazy wild wine writings.  Speaking of writing about wine, I didn’t expect this bottle to be as animated and innovative as it is.  Sauvignon Blanc never riles me, honestly, but this one is.  Notes of lime, melon, pine, mint and rosemary, a little stone-something and… salt?  This wine has me thinking, thinking more about my place in wine’s world and what I’m doing in it.  This is a bottle that you’d have at a table, with family, or by yourself like me now, writing my musings on whatever I’m doing tonight.  Tomorrow the week starts, and who knows what will happen.  OR, I do.. I will do what I did on my run today, just keep going.  Yes, I stopped at 8.5 miles, and I wanted to get to 13.1, but I had a well-pushed jaunt.  I got out there, when all I really wanted to do was be lazy and take a nap on the couch.  Just keep moving.

Wife said that soon she’ll be in bed after her long drive up from the city and I’ll prep for Tuesday’s class, put a little more in the book.. my Kismet Cuvée.  Want to “educate” people more on wine, and what they should know, and what they “should know they already know.  What’s that?  Themselves.  Too many times people come into the tasting room and say something like, “I don’t know the right language” or “I’m not sure what the proper wine words are, but…” Wine is personal.  Wine is US.  Wine is not meant to be complicated or even “sophisticated”.  When the fuck are people going to get this?  I’m speaking too harshly and unprofessionally, I know.  Just what’s on my mind.  And again, I’m from the literary world, not this wine industry, and I have to constantly re-calibrate my tone and word deployment.  I’m working on it, I swear.

Had a Sauvignon Blanc at the restaurant, paired with those shrimp tacos.  Just asked the waitress, who was sweet and amicable and eager to get us what we asked for, to bring out whatever SB they had.  I should have asked which it was.  Probably could just go online and find out, but either way it was a gracious pairing— quixotically complimenting all flavors and textures, notes and sensory dotes.  But I too find myself getting tired.  May be headed upstairs with wife when she finally walks up.  Miss my babies.. have so much material to go through from today.  Better wake early tomorrow.  Get writing done, go through pictures on the camera, and do whatever I can do with a quiet morning base.  Will put coffee leftover in tumbler in fridge.. was he upstairs making the funny noise that unnerves me strangely.  Need another glass.. notes, lectures, books, all on mind.  Dominating my concentration.  But my concentration breaks, when I see my phone light up from a message or email… should turn that fucking thing off, or destroy it.  No, can’t do that.  But I should certainly have it out of eye-shot.  Need that glass of SB, finally.

Maple Vineyard Reaction

Newness Hugged in Dry Creek

Was told the vineyard blocks and property was inspiring, but I had no conception or way to measure what was my way headed.  When vineyards surround you and chant an unusually haunting and encouraging chorus like the Maple Vineyard does, you stop and listen, look around.  Day was felicitous in that I and some co-workers and friends had such invitation to listen to Tina Maple speak about her and late-husband Tom’s property.  Only selling to four select wineries, they want the integrity of their fruit kept in tact.  There were so many seconds and minutes in Tina’s presentation where I wanted to break just for a second from our circle and take pictures, of the rows, of her dogs, the clusters, perceptive and vantage angularities looking up the hill, but no.  I had to listen.  This New experience had to be fully captured, however I was to do it— by observing, taking pictures, walking around shooting video, however.  But more than anything, I wanted to listen to the property’s owner detail the history and the soil composition and how the vines were cared for.

She disclosed that at the beginning, where she and Tom bought the property in the 80’s, they had no idea what they were doing, really.  But one discovery and fortunate transpiration after another, and Tom’s tectonic interest and curiosity about the their new property, they found themselves to have an opportunity to grow and replant some resplendent fruit.  While she spoke I did look around though, and the sight itself and how gripping every turn was, each image and rich specificity that greets your eye is poetic, musical.  This is a vineyard that I was meant to see.  I always say, “I’m always in the vineyard.  I have to be in the vineyard.” With the prominent atmospheric rhetoric and convincing entrapment of this property, now I know what I’ve saying to myself over and over is true.  But I know not many of the vineyards I visit or meditate in with have this celestial degree.

Not sure where the fruit is in its development and ripening, or maturation, its story, but each cluster looked and tasted prodigious.  Each its own paragraph and sonnet, line and language, speaking to me the pursuer and worshipper of vines, soil, site.  Sites like this give a writer more sight, more creative rumble about our thinking, urges, visions, where we see ourselves.  Tina taking the time to tell us all about her property as well as urging us to walk around and explore, taste the grapes, go check out the Alicante Bouschet in a parcel dubbed “Bill’s Block” could only be described as propitious.  Just as she and Tom had their dream, we should all have ours.  This vineyard’s uniquely instructional and an endearing shove for wine lovers, winemakers, wine chasers, or writers like me.  There’s no way the person who told me the Maple property was “inspiring” could have told me how much.  Because places like that can’t be contained to singular words, or thoughts.  A visit like this leaves you with an expanding reaction and reflection, sprinting forward into years just as the vineyard itself has— transcending in story and reach.  Taste from one of the four wineries to which they sell.  You’ll want to walk those rows, too.


Working quickly at winery…

Speeding through projects but not carelessly.  With ardor and an elevated interest that I’ve never seen in Self before.  Sticking to my vision of no DC Gen Store for lunch, wanting that intrinsic alchemy shove from hunger.  Hem said it was motivation, or discipline.  Finding it to be both…  Trying to keep an inventory of every creative act today.  See how it goes.  So far, effective, more motivation.

Another call from member, requesting update of information, re-directing shipment.  So interesting, all the facets to a winery– club member information to tasting notes, to compliance and shipping, branding and travel, sales goals and all the complexities of… well, everything.  Like Debra, the owner here, I’m thinking one day I WILL have my own winery.  Sonoma County for sure, Dry Creek or RRV.  I’ll decide in time.

Lunch– ‘nother winery visit.  One I haven’t been to before, David Coffaro.  Told it’s good, can’t wait to find out.  Experience a new place as a tourist would, pretend I’m not connected, but here for the first time, so eager nd open to everything.  I envy these tourists and their plans, and the one doing everything by whim (especially the latter).  I start to think and work and imagine with more speed, more creative quickness.  Enriched, enlivened, interested in this wine life in way I’ve never been.

Pouring for 1

In the tasting room.  Not throwing self into day too quickly, but I have the timer on as I did yester’, for 6 hours this go ‘round.  What do I want to happen?  What do I expect to happen?  I don’t know.. really.  But something.  With wine and writing and self-publishing, small releases to bridge these income gaps, not writing for free— even the newsletter.. keep it short maybe.  But no, even that would be unpaid.  Well, it would be paid in that I’d be paying to send it out over whatever emailing system I elect.  So now.. to brainstorming.. a business plan for me as a “professional blogger”.. no more than 3 posts a day, on any given blog.  And nothing over 300 words of prose.  Anything over should be sold, printed and bound.  I’ll be traveling lecturing about self-publishing as well, in addition to teaching and writing and blogging, maybe even travel and travel writing, a new form of journalism.

But not so fast.  To thinking, storming in my stormdrain brain.

Researching, more “connections”, and yes another blog.  Looking at the wines on the table left, or really atop a cupboard, they want me to taste them.  So I guess I will.  Not all, just the Pinot.  And the Grenache.  And Cab.  The wines in this room tell me not to get board but to keep swimming in the narrative of each varietal and translation.. swim in wine’s calculations and codification.  Pouring myself something.

Something red.


Morning Mood, a move

11AM and I start with my day’s drops, driving over here in rain if you could call it rain, but not like the weather people called for.  They predict storms or they put the anticipation fire on highburn, and let us do the rest, simmer in wait, fear, or just waiting to see if we should be afraid or not, and give it all (this potential) a word like El Niño, to personify it with some menace and overarch, like a branch with the most gothic of vultures looking down to us with intentions beyond our control–

In the adjunct hut, done with grading and more or less ready for the meeting, the section next, only four sessions left if I tally today and the exam day, which I may or not be a cast member of.  Could use more coffee but the walk over there would certainly take from my types and with time as it is I can’t afford surplus even if I do have some– the clock won’t agree, and my metaphysical synchrony’s awobble anyway today.  Must be the late rise this morning, with Ms. Alice waking me saying, “It’s 7:20…” “Oh shit,” I three from my vocals, first of the day, running to Jackie’s room and he already up as a little Beatnik would be and I had to catch up.  So that mode and panicked late-week modality steers me to this page and the last teaching day of Week 16.. by far the most weighted and chasming semester of my adjunct story thus far, closing.  I think of the break and what I’ll do, and what else but grow the wine story and enjoy the vineyards in their dormancy, in their meditative composition and code, walk and record, take notes as I did that one day at St. Francis after little Kerouac was born, strolling the Syrah block and scribbling notes and translations natural from the naturalist notes around me, all circular and rewarding.  Am I there now, in this adjunct den, with equalling quietude?  Not really.  But I’m close, as the jazz jumps around like kitten synecdoches with paintbrushes, chase chase chase–

More music in me this morning than I’d expect be–  and that has to be from the rain I’m hoping for, but not in the later tonight cruise back from Mendocino.  What I’m hoping for, a quick meeting with them on rough drafts and dismissing…  Tomorrow a meeting with writing/wine client, then to.. what.  More writing, probably at Hopper coffee shop watching everyone around me with those Friday woes and reliefs blended with the angst that in just three days they’ll be back.  At work.  Clock… task orders patterns and papers stacks beyond their control and influx moderation circuitry, acuity.. my rambles facilitated by music and not just what I’m hearing in my ears, “Ayerloom” by Roy Ayers, I’m enlivened and not simply “emboldened” as so many now punctuate, but driving while still, further into another story, and what, what else do I recite– have to inventory all these new writings and sell every last bloody one.. no more outside Sonoma County!  I’l be stationed there, in my SELF-promulgated pages and whirlwinds of wild wine prose, like the Dizzy trumpet, paradiddles on highhats and the piano in tow.  Anymore pattern, no–  Just freely sewn sentences in a rewarding stream, for me, my students and the new story I’m rushing through and to for expository exponents anew..

The records need be better kept, I’m realizing with these standalone pieces, locking myself indoors and riling at least five pieces in a sitting, poem and prose, like Kerouac after a bottle of something red, or Hem after a few beers, Ms. Plath after three cups before her babies wake.

Pen, left, from this adjunct hut, and I won’t give it back.  Spoils!  Ugh, sound like a fantasy or sci-fi writer.  But I take it as a gift and reminder to myself of this semester.  I won’t ever again pen with this pen, but just look at it, on my desk or in a drawer– no, it has to be visible, that reminder of these drives and the new writer friend I’ve made– fellow adjunct and novelist and person in this putrid parlor of blandness and slouching vision.  But not for us!  We write!  And in the syllables we more than just survive or cope.  I’m seeing more in the vineyards and my interactions with them over break.. walks, yes, but photography like Hunter S., writing to what I shoot like the still I took the other day (with my phone, contemptibly), pulling over to 12’s side just before 29 to shoot the Autumnal blares from tired vines and rusting trellis wires.

Definitely need more coffee.  A cup before class I think, and why not.. oh, the notes.. I don’t want to pull myself from this page, though.. so, what does a versifying wandered do or execute with the xylophone bouncing on my ears’ drums like caffeinated bulls.  Keep thinking and picturing, I say to myself, and the Road just ahead, the travel and the plates, wine in hotels and with new writer friends..  Keep the story of this adjunct morphing into something that will not even closely mirror the catalyst; that first class at Chabot!  If only I could have then seen what now’s tangible.. but no.  This was all part of the story.  WAS and IS the story itself.. me the diffident, defiant, separatist writing adjunct not at all quiet about the inequities facing us; constricting and draining our pocketbooks so they can have a section go, some desperate and overeager burgeoning instructor wanting ribbons on his résumé.

Just spent 2.5 minutes planning, if that, for class.  Not much to do in these précis weeks.  And, IF the dean shows today, I’ll be more or less ready.  But how ready do I need to be not at all vying for a spot next semester?  I feel’s though if he does show, there’ll be literally no communication, and he’ll be observing close to nothing as there’s nothing much to observe being this Week 16, and all our material’s been covered, only this departmental “exam” next.  The ubiquitous and rife, robust (!), disorganization here is bewilderingly humorous, and rather amusing at this point in term where as in Weeks 1-11, it frustrated, irk, further embittered.  Now, I’m musical, singing to myself in victory and newly paginated Autonomy.


1,000 words — barrel 8

Class done, giving Self ten minutes to write, so leave Emeritus at 4:55 to get Jackie.. long day but energized, successful, productive, what be.. great meeting with grape growers about writing assignment and now I realize I haven’t done a goddamn thing with the poetry collection due this Friday.. do I even have the funds to publish it?  Doesn’t matter, the poems need to be gathered, and I need it in publishing position.  No wine tonight, as I want to prep for tomorrow and the interviews Wednesday morning at the grape growers office for the stories I’m to record.  My schedule quickly fills and I notice more a need for the write to log items for schedule in ONE location, and not this bloody laptop schedule.  I’m tired, hungry, need a snack, and some music– for some reason I feel a crippling crave for music, for Hutcherson or Thievery Corporation not sure but I want to keep writing and in the presence of music like I’m playing an instrument on some stage in some smoke-smattered bar, but I’m here in Emeritus Hall with.. with… well, books all around me and me at the head of this T-formation’d two tables, for those very important conferences and meetings the full-timers have.  Everything logged, my style of writing you could say–  I hope people would say, noticing the meticulous obsession with all things ordinary or otherwise dismissed, like the paper shredder to my right, wonder when the last time that was used– and the students in their chairs, when they do their freewrites in class, and now they bury themselves in their studies and that’s their foremost concern; due dates, grades, transferring to a 4year.  And me, only getting older, finally somewhat finding myself at 36– maybe my wife’s right, I should apply to these FT openings.  But is that what I really want?  It goes agains the answer to Dad’s ‘perfect world’ inquiry.. I do want to teach, or “teach”, like I did today, typing up my lecture on Plath, and sharing it with the enrolleds.  Not preaching or sounding pompous, but just sharing my findings and ideas and if they’re lost with the text then maybe the ideas I typed might help.  That approach to teaching I love– if that’s “teaching”.  HAVING to attend meetings or panels or conferences, or having to devote myself to a certain project or initiative when not being justly compensated interests me none.  And that’s what I can’t see myself doing.  How I taught today, or whatever I did today in the classroom which the students very much enjoyed, far’s I could decode, I very much will continue to do.  But that’s it.  So maybe I shouldn’t.  Apply…..

Have to get little Kerouac.  Excited to see how the day went for my little Beatnik boy.  What he learned, if he napped, if he falls asleep in his seat on the way home as he’s done a couple cruises of late.

4:55.  Time.

Now at home, waiting for the interview I shot with Glenn last Friday to upload.  Tired and with a bit of a sharp mood– not in the mood for TV, or conversation, or thinking about tomorrow, not even wine.  Not at all.  All I want to do is write and remove myself from the pattern, the patternized, anything and all things predictable.  Tired from day, from the lectures I gave and really what am I doing at the head of that class– I’m speaking passionately about Sylvia Plath, sharing my ideas.. is that “teaching”?  I can only see education at the college level especially as flawed inherently and with intrinsic illness.  But what can I do, nothing.  And I don’t want to do anything, nothing excessively drastic.  I’ll take the check, use my role in such regard, steer as I want to then get into my office off the Healdsburg Square, and write on wine, taste when I wish and personify it as no other wine “writer” does.

Now the writer’s tired, disconnected and surrendered.  And my alarm sounded this morning at 4:30.  I woke.  But only to turn it off.  Bloody hell…  My mood further sinks.. need a nightcap, and not in wine’s form, but something sweet.. like… 7UP?  Better than some Halloween candy, I guess.  Or not.. I deserve.  Deserve what.  Something.  I don’t know.  This is the day talking, okay– so I move on, and into the kitchen.  For something sweet, kill my impatience and indecisive whatever.  I’m like Esther in New York, I should be confident right now and defiant and writing something explosive but instead I’m here just whining.  And I hate it.  At least not all the whining’s making it to page–  Writers experience this I guess, or I know after writing for so many years, and now seeing how quickly time by this penner flies.  But I can do nothing but try to keep up with Time– or no, just outrun it, refuse its reality and what it does.

I’m ready for bed, and ready to restart, but I don’t agree with that mentality.  I want the conviction of this day being the last, of the urgency, the life-or-death attitude with each page, like I urge my students, “Do something crazy” when the writing or the day bores you.  So–  A story: professor offered a lecturing opportunity, but he passes, not sure where it will take him.  So then after he wonders why he said ‘no’, why he passed.  His attitude changes.  He becomes bitter, scornful, he starts writing crazy essays about the institution and drinking and calling in sick to write and travel, drive across state, Oregon, in his car which could any day die.

Huh, I think.  An idea.  Novel?  Something for NaNoWriMo? (If that’s what it’s called..)  Not sure.  This is my exhaustion talking.  Now, a tall glass of water, rocks, and this cluttered desk, the narration from my wife’s show in the living room.  Jackie upstairs, asleep.  Thinking of Plath and my lecture on her, her character, what Esther wants and what I want– life, careers.. shit, too much for so late in the evening.  And, night…..


1,000 words — barrel 7

Up at 4:53 but went back to sleep, now 6:06 and I refuse to let my head touch that pillow after bringing Jack to our bed.  Downstairs now in this dark and I’m set on making today one of writing and content and money– yes, ‘money’.  I need to fill these income gaps as I’ve said and produce more money for myself, more importantly my family.  Writer dilemma, here in the earliest of morning, or not the earliest the earliest would have been at 5.  Was so close, but I’m here now, reader.  Writing.  And the day, the day is right there, and I’m in control as I noted last night, as I thought last night driving home from Mendocino, before being accosted by that CHP officer (he telling me to slow down, which I did otherwise there was no way he could have come to my window to tell me the obvious, the the road crew was working and that it’s a bloody mess on the road, 101, and that ‘we’re all gonna get through this’).  “What?” I thought.  I pity him, his life, what he was out there doing, after our lovely interaction, his invisibly pushing people onward with his flashlight.  That’s his job, when I’m sure all he wanted to do is being a real police officer, not a glorified hall monitor, patrolling California Highways.  Neither there, nor here, or anything of importance.. I’m here on this couch and I hear Alice wake or at the least stir, probably toward the shower as she always does, leaving Jack in our bed but I can’t imagine him staying too still, me having just brought him to our bed and him asking last night “Where’s daddy…Where’s Dada?” Alice told me.  I don’t mind this sitting being interrupt at all really, as I’m just warming up as a writer, this is my meditation, my inner collection and warmup exercises I guess you could say.

Meeting Glenn at Punchdown at 9:30– have to charge phone, and camera, need a new notebook, or no I don’t I’ll just use the Fall ’15 one.  Week 10, dead.  Thank the Craft, onward now, onward into my wined story and growth, and that ‘end game’ as Kevin said.  Which is, I think, my own wine.  And I’ve held that vision for some time now, truly, so that has to be it.  Something has to be IT, right?  I’m 36 with a daughter headed straight for me.  Yes.. the model of the big ad/media/blogging/content company then the side project, the “passion project” (hate that, yes too cliché, but that’s just what it is).  My winery.  Starting with SB, Merlot, as you know, and then maybe jumping into Syrah which I love and perhaps even Pinot, or some Rhône blend, some Rhône-something.  Wine’s a path to just be walked and enjoyed, not over-thought.  I’m in control.  And I don’t know why, I have to again note, this is hitting me at 36, such realization.  Why did I have to wait till now?

6:09AM, Friday, but it’s hard to see Friday like normal people, esp people who don’t write or blog ‘cause we’re always working.  Content is everything to us; life and family, and me now with this “daddy blog” idea, or startup– no, just a blog now, maybe it’ll turn into another “startup” like the vvv idea, but I want to explore and share, and LEARN from and TEACH MYSELF, and maybe others though I’m hardly an authority, on parenting.  How Jack, and soon Ms. Emma (whom I still call Ms. Austen, even though the ‘Jane camp’ is long, long gone– when there were so many potential names for my daughter I called them camps; the Jane camp, Emily camp, Emma camp, Catherine Elizabeth camp…)…  Just parenting I find so interesting now, and this is a direct extension and demonstrative of who I am and how I think, as a professor, yes, just more so one from the Literary world and seeing everything differently, processing life as an Artist, one with an ever accumulating book and journal.

The white wine I opened last night, an unlabeled bottle of the Cuvée Blanc from Glenn’s label.  Nice fruit, simple but not too.. just the type of white you open at the end of a long day, which I very much did, in fact I even thought of how I’d reward myself with that bottle, a couple glasses, last night.  And I can remember precisely when: walking from my car to the building where they have me in another goddamn adjunct office, shared obviously, crossing the street to the building, in that crosswalk, a car waiting for my self-removal from street, to my right.  And there I was last night at the kitchen island eating the salmon Ms. Alice had waiting for me, that little pasta with cheese & broccoli (which we call Jackie pasta as he used to love it, not so much anymore, which is another interesting reflective province of parenting– keeping some sort of reasonable, non-frustrating pace with their preferences).  Little Kerouac’s not too bad, but who knows what Ms. Austen has planned.  And speaking of Jane.. and books…..  Think I’ll order some today– no, have to get through the ones I have here on my desk, my reading list which includes that new Kerouac book which I’ve barely touched (‘Sea/Brother’).  And as I pity that hallway supervisor last night on 101 South, I as well some adjuncts that are convinced it’ll get better, that they’ll be tenured when clearly the system has no plan of that for them.  And why should it be about Them having a plan for Us?  Why can’t WE have more control?  “You need to be more involved,” one person told me, but it’s unpaid involvement.  With a house, and another Madigan about to land, that’s unreasonable of anyone to as THIS Madigan.  I need pay, and I need more, and I’m in control with my projects and writing and blogging so don’t worry…  I’ll get it myself.


1,000 words — barrel 6

Going at a blueberry muffin here in the SRJC library, 9:24, time.  The earliest I’ve been here all semester.  This is what the story demanded so I answered, driving straight here after taking Jackie to school.  On my right, some books–  But I can’t just write freely this morning, I need objectives, some line of time, timing– so, now till 10AM, flurry in prose in this journal, discussing and deciding my academic/student life, both Literature and wine.  10-11, read and react to one of your reading/research projects (Plath’s entries, Bell Jar, Hem’s ‘Feast’, or Kerouac’s ‘Sea/Brother’).  I’m beginning a reading journal just as I urge the students– in fact, let it here be decided I start with Plath’s books.. getting deeper into the idea of WHAT she is rather than who.  11-12:30, prep for class, meaning grading and lecture notes, all.  The materialization of the writer/professor/student– more a student/writer than “professor” or “teacher”.  Then to class eager to share the ideas, the findings, the insights on her work.  Be a true lecturer, writer, academic.  An “academic” to me is one who enjoys the learning, not really possessing a drive or inner demand to teach but to simply share his love of learning and writing, research and all aligned.

The library seems to be full, nearly heaping with students, working on papers and projects at this past-halfway point in the term.  Again, I want to be more one of them than some full-timer thinking he knows everything– distract by an email I had to send to a fulltimer up at Mendo– and this goddamn table keeps chirping at me, squeaking but it does sound more like a chirp.  I’m not dissuaded.. I move down right, pushing my books, pulling my muffin and coffee and phone closer, and… no squeaks.  Or at least not as loud.  Week 10, nearly done.  12 has always been the reassuring week for me, that number telling me there’s light at term’s tunneling end, then showing such luminary on that week’s last day.  And I grow tired of my writing and thinking, this room and this bloody table, so I do something crazy– forget I’m a teacher here.  And am I?  Do I really “teach” anything?  Like I said earlier, I share ideas but that doesn’t necessarily make me an educator.  And do I even want to educate?  Maybe it’s true, all I want to do is share my ideas and thoughts on literature, wine, them separate and together.  14 minutes more in my place here in the journal.  Feel myself with a bit of a bug, throat and cough, and tired, which is odd as I slept fine last night.  Writing goals down– or more ‘objectives’ than GOALS.  Not fond of the word, “goal”.  Reminds me of soccer, which I don’t have a problem with but it trivializes the thought and concept, I think, of having a goal or objective, or aim of some kind.  Now I don’t know what I’m writing, but I have to stay strong for class, keep drinking this coffee hoping it helps, helps the writing and the reading– heard my neighbor’s daughter last night say, from the porch where she was seemingly reading a book, ‘Mockingbird’ by Lee, blaring, “I hate reading…” Then she yelled out to one of Alice’s friends, neighbors to everyone on Autumn Walk, if there was a way to get it “on tape”, or find it on YouTube.  I have no comment, really, other than this is the student culture of the day, the idle nature and minimization of everything…

Am I sick?  Should I go home?  Hate feeling tired like this, and I was looking so much forward to coming to campus so early, rushing to the library, writing and reading and prepping for class–  The table starts chirping again and I get annoyed, rub my left eye with my left palm, look at the book cover, right, Ms. Plath smiling at someone, rose in front of her.  And with how she composed herself in the quaking of all her pain, I have to do the same.  My poetry collection due in 8 days, ‘Ocular Total’, I dubbing it for now.  The title could change but I’m estimating it’ll remain.  Again trying to snap Self from this lull and sickly crash, if I am sick but I’m pretty sure I have whatever Jackie and Alice had, I brandish my Composition Book, a pen from bag, think of my students and how even the poorest performing bring themselves to type, and PRINT, SUBMIT something.  I learn from it and so do, too.

Muffin gone, and I only have 2 minutes in this part of the schedule– oh what do I do?  I know a nap at home and rest will excommunicate whatever this is pulling at my ardency.  A student sits across the floor from me in a singular sofa, peering down at her binder, notes and a book.  That’s what I want, that life, the study and submission of effort and recording of findings, that’s what I need to lock in my vision.  Being a student.. a student.. studying.. 10:01– late for my study date with Self– laptop closing.

And yes, I came home to sleep.  So I’m going upstairs to sleep– and when awake again I’ll answer the different thoughts I had whilst driving home, left on Guerneville or Steele or whatever street:  print pages and submit them.  “What?” I thought.  “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

So I will when awake, singularize and consolidate and simplify in a way I never have, getting me to the Road and away from the monotony like the dog I hear barking somewhere right, down the street.

Up from mid-afternoon rest, waiting for Alice and J to be back home.. gathered all the Comp Books I could find.. and disgusted.. too many which indicates and emphasizes my scattered nature.. so, I put everything in the Fall 2015 Book.  Tonight I’ll be grading and beginning my close of the semester, cleaning up this home study and prepping for tomorrow.  I have no intention, NONE, of going to that adjunct hole before class.  I’ll be at the Starbuck down the Road and collect Self, write, there.

It truly bothers me, staring at this stack of Composition books.  I’ll change, I tell myself, I’ll change.  Be more succinct and singularized.  -10/21/15

2,000 words — barrel 5 (sample)

…be a tourist since I’m not traveling right now and it seems like everyone else is–  Mom and Dad in Munich, or they should be by now.  Neither of them write, really, but I hope they at the very least document their trip beyond the expected couple’s shots around the city, or on some river boat, at the table in a restaurant, and what be.  And they will.  I know my parents and I know they are familiar with the value of adequately capturing Life.  55 days till Emma’s landing.. till I’m bloody done with this semester, or at least in my head..  Then, it’s over.  This adjunct usualness.  The pattern the chase and this goddamn drive.  I would organize more and start some rebellion or movement, but for what?  I’m just moving on.. just moving on, on past the deans and the chairs, the full-timers and full-time adjuncts that still hope somehow that it will all work out, that one day they’ll be tenured– and why.  No.  I’m moving, in wine’s story and soon to my pages, around the country and around the world, meeting Mom and Dad in Munich, or Paris, Madrid.. everywhere.  Today, I travel to the Square and truly, wholly put myself in the tourist’s shoes.. walking around with that awe, that wonder with wine that I do myself have but not like someone from, say, Iowa, that’s never been here, that’s never walked around the square, that’s never worked at a winery, that’s never stopped into the Swiss Hotel for a beer– now there’s an idea!  No, have to be on the job, and like Hemingway no drinking while writing, not anymore, and like Kerouac ‘no getting drunk outside my house’.  Not that I have any sight of intoxicating to that or any degree, but I’m a tourist.  That’s the point.  I’m going on a trip for, I don’t know.. say… 90 minutes.  If I leave campus at 1:30, I should be parked and walking by 2:20, latest latest.  Should get a little note pad– no, just use the “FALL 2015 Comp Book”.. yes, so I just dodged an expense.  Look for wines and shops, food especially.. now I see more content and stories in food and little restaurants and eateries, especially the ones you can’t easily from the street see.  Doing something with bank accounts.. hold please…..  There.  $5 to credit card.  I’m going to pay that bitch down, off, done and gone one way or some other.  Selling my writing, the poems (due 10/29, a Thursday, my busiest day type this term).  Material material, all around me..  But I’m so lively and wonderfully scattered and only thinking about my wine story, this new ME that I can barely focus.  Not getting more coffee although it would be interesting to see what I type in terms of the characters around me and in my character with more fuel, nearing some intoxication or safe buzz from espresso, or that medium Roast–