bottledaux…my sister, and being around her tonight and seeing her outside the crush pad and away from the vineyard has me leaping to other others. I see more with me and wine, and she’s proof, this young woman traveling and submitting wines and pouring at dinners, speaking about her creations.
There, the wine gone.
302 words behind NaNoWriMo schedule. But I need to now rest, after this Thursday, my first drive up to Mendo in 2 weeks. I’m sipping the ’12 NDC Blair and I made. And it’s clear what my end-game is, yes, oh yes. A student left the classroom at Mendo only to return to read from a page he was proud of, as I told the students at the beginning of the meeting that at the end they could approach me with “a page they’re proud of”. Two did, Tom and Trent. And then, this other gentleman, ‘G’ I’ll him label, came back in, reading from the page before showing it to me.. the sketch, about going into the library and making fun of the books available, and how his perception of a library had changed. I admired his willingness, and pride, and how even through his visible and palpable nervousness he still read, voice aquake.
And the Solano observation not happening… I’m not surprised. At all. That school’s a mess. And I feel so heartily for the students, that work so hard and study endlessly, in that “writing lab” and in the library looking for books to assist their writings and positions. I envy the students more than I can ever tell, or know, or talk, tabulate, anything. Week 12, over. I can’t believe it, and I can.
I stare at the glass, the wine I made, imagine the tasting room I’ll have. And where. I don’t know. Healdsburg? Too cliché, I feel. For the mikemadigancrEATive office, sure. But not a tasting room. I’ll think about that later, so far later. Right now I just want to enjoy my wine– Huh, MY wine. I made it. Interesting. What a day. Stories, reflections and reactions and growth. Me writer winemaker fool lover. Comically cubist, Beat–
Can only write so much, I’m finding. Behind on my daily NaNoWriMo contribution. Over 200 words short. I’ll make that up in the morrow, I’m hoping. Had too much of the tortilla soup, so I’m uncomfortable, but I bought a ’13 Chalk Hill Pinot, Sonoma Coast to pair with. Not at all disappointing… In fact, much more energetic and prominent than I expected for a Sonoma Coast. I’ll have one more glass before bed. Maybe that will push me over 1,786. My daily aim. And if not, I’ll make up the balance in the early day, tomorrow.
If I had to score this wine, I guess it’d be somewhere around 90, or 91. It’s nice, but nothing too commanding or innovative or moving about its general consistency. To me, anyway. But what do I know. I’m not a wine critic, or judge, certainly no expert. I just write about it and disclose what I’m sipping every now and again.
Wine should bring with it humility, and inspire sippers to be more humble, more human and gentle in their presence and way. Want to write more about wine but I can’t now, tired and uncomfortable, like after Thanksgiving dinners, sittings with family where you have that stuffing again, again…
So this last glass, bottle open for well over 3 hours.. will be interesting to see how the texture has morphed and repositioned itself. Tired from day.. lecturing the two 1A’s.. But I’m too tired to now really revel in my wave of reading and interpretation. Watching some numb and numbing reality TV show, what’s left of the program my wife start but’s still on.
I’ll focus on this Pinot, what I just sipped, last from glass, and yes much more color and affection from the wine’s nucleus and expressive turns. The character now, what I just sipped, what I look for in all wine– dynamism, a quaint cubist recline, sipped ballad strut. So, score changed– And to be frank, I don’t want to be one of those wine writers with their silly scores and closed-door attitudes. This ’13 Chalk Hill Pinot’s one that I’ll again visit, and be in better position for reaction and reflection, more glassed introspection.
(11/2/15)
That wooing style of Pinot I love, and chase, but rarely find. But I have it now, oh do I have it now with the rose pedal flirtation and light red fruit with understated but still altogether relevant vanilla, encircling my senses with its little urging vignettes of flavor and voltage– olfactory momentum only augmented by what greets the tongue– syllabic syncopation and thorough exploration of the varietal’s ebb and origin. Mendocino, more and more ardent in its stage presence and voice– even as the hour onward urges I write for this wine and not that it needs me to I just note so I don’t forget; this Pinot’s one I want to remember far after the bottle’s left vacant on the countertop, there just looking back at me, knowing it has me and its spell quite affective, it won I lost and I’m more than at peace with the peace it gave me, a piece of it mise en scèn, its ubiquitous aura and rush about my stages, imagined and actual, lost in the Pinot path again and I’m like an ant, looking for something, not food or any substance but reason, why it took my so long to find the farm, this shape of Pinot and these chapters that I sipped– the bottle looks back at me from the counter and I feel regret and victor syncopatedly. I walk over to the bottle and just stare at the label, want to know more about so I do some research and now understand why I’m so driven and drawn to its design– they catalyzed humbly and understand and remain so. Or not so, as this bottle can’t be ignored, passed, or spoken over, or for. This is my rile reconfiguring my rationale, so pardon– It’s autonomous and quite vaunting about its phenolic jargon. Still talking to me, even after the last glass which I finished well over ten minutes ago.
This wine has me on its mission, to realize Pinot’s innermost character, the compounding of delicacy and assertiveness. And as oxygen saunters into its makeup the floral notes and theses of vanilla and cinnamon, maybe saturated forest soil or something, present themselves and with artful rhythm. And the Literary qualities? Everywhere, in all stages of its development and stance, it doesn’t taper or fade or relent in its spell. Narrative, development, contradiction and plot anomolies… and if I’m one of the ants on the farm I’m more than elated with such, my new story sipping this Pinot form. I’m more than certain most I know haven’t tasted a Pinot of this expressive elevation. Or maybe I’m wrong. Either way this should be studies, not duplicated– well, it won’t be, it can’t. Only by its creators.
Its own scenery, ambient consistency it how lassos your attention. Like staring at the ocean, or walking in the Mendocino woods, there’s pace in this bottle. Vineyard Zen couriered to the glass, and now to the writer– our narratives again soon hopefully meet. And now I think more about what it said, what it commanded– And I go back to my glass. Another visit.
Yes.
MM95
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.
(10/23/15)
Monday morning and I’m very much multitasking you could say, trying to “launch” website for mmc and email a client, and think in my head what I have to do for classes. Luckily, only 9:30, so I have a bit of time, but I need to work faster than fast, efficient or crazy I don’t know what the right term would be. But I’m working this morning, reader, just so you know… Ugh, very much multitasking, drinking coffee and circling in my ideas. How to make more money and how to diversify my business model as a writer and blogger and wine-selling.. or crEATive wine selling character– more charisma and the assurance that no one can do what I can, no one can work as hard as I do doing this, this wine life, all written and all recorded– I have 2 babies and a wife that depend on my pages, on me, and this morning I woke looking at the clock and saw 7:03, I believe. I felt disgusted with myself, lazy and worthless, not at all like a professional writer. So it stops and I change on a dime right now here in this home office and with this very cup of coffee. Was tempted to go to Starbucks but I need take full mammoth advantage of this morning, and all it affords.
So I calm, or try, try to write more cleanly with more pristine sentence rhythm and self-coercion… put something on new blog, need more coffee– and what to do in class today, what to do when my head is nowhere near that campus and the abysmal pay they offer us adjuncts. I feel so horribly for the other adjuncts, and some full-timers I hear complaining around the halls that have no other option than to be a bloody teacher. I will say I’m quite gracious to whatever cosmic compositions me encircle for my options, for wine and its story and for mornings like this and this coffee, my family and my story as a Wild Wine Writer.
The day seems bright and beaming with composition, bullion in sentences and characters, character studies (which includes myself, my steps on and off campus).. just have to wait for the semester to be done, till Emma’s here, till all’s more settled. Have to email new ideas to Glenn, see what he thinks. So much going on this morning.. you should see me in here… Things settling, I think.. talking to some product expert by way of internet chat. Annoying that I have to interact with tech as much as I do but as a blogger I supposed I’m being an avalanche of unrealistic thinking I can dodge tech and the internet too much, right? But maybe that’s part of my brand’s appeal, me as a writer, that I hate tech and the internet (maybe not hate), but I hold to my writing values and use what I dislike in my own convenient capacity, something like that. I’m rambling, I know.. thinking of the SB I had last night and the reds I tasted in the Sanglier tasting room, especially that Boar’s Camp blend. Have never considered myself that much of a Rhône nut, but this label has made me assuredly a curious and more exploratory figure about the varietal region, and the stylistic ebb of Rhônes. Interesting, and I still see myself the studying student especially with the time I spend with Glenn be it in the TR or at the crush pad. Allowing myself to be fully enveloped by wine, wine’s narrative fire and musical moldings– The writer now sees more of his day, after class, coming home with Jackie and enjoying some simple snack, maybe going to the store before home and me watching him from the patio, laughing at his chasing of friends and how he hits the wiffle ball with one arm, always left. Then he chases, repeats, “Watch, Daddy!” he yells from across the street.
Time for another cup of this medium Roast, more jazz and more time for me, my elucidated peace, synonymous with find Self and the Equilibrium I’ve been after since, well.. forever.. since my first hated job at the local grocery store in Belmont. I have to forget about all past trial and falls and move more venomously, crEATively forward in my pages and story, relationship with wine. And the aim to wake at 5, like Glenn or any other farmer or any Artist serious about their craft. And if I’m to one day be a winemaker then I need to be up earlier. Why is this such a struggle for me, really? Examining it, I can only conclude laziness to some extent but as well going to bed too late. A writer, or any penner word reading, exhibits more militancy with his sleep patterns, and doesn’t fret with a lack of sleep but rather embraces it as an advantageously altered consciousness codification, causing him to see differently and throw his rhythm to page with more crazed and musical innovation–
What I want to “teach” today? Don’t know.. I want to make the sessions something I’d enjoy.. if I’m a student in my own class, I want to enjoy myself, enjoy the discussions and my own writing.. so how to begin.. Go completely offbook. So, no Wolff. Then what? Blend you ideas, winemaker-slash-writer.. writing, poetry, odd words.. like ‘kalology’.. what beauty is in literature (and wine, outside of class).. something that elevates the soul, as Poe said.. get theoretical, get abstract, go outside the box, and barrel, and book– hmm.. now I start to bubble in cogitation crEATively and fly away to some other story in my character.. just on my own stage and learning. This is all oneiric, I feel, or maybe more tangible than I acknowledge– need time to think about this one, piano riffs all about this room and me in this swiveling chair, realizing I’ve reached a thousand words but I have no want to halt, or stop like some dog ordered to. Winemakers, in their caves or barrel rooms, don’t leave till they’re satisfied with their progress. Wouldn’t say I’m mawkish with my work this morning, by any means, just not fulfilled in the way I wish.. so what do I wish for, right? Isn’t that the next logical inquiry? I don’t know. I want to be walking a vineyard. I want to be at the crush pad. I want rain. I want this semester to be over–
I want my daughter.
I want to sip wine in Paris, again–
I want the Road–
I want to know what my latest character study does, where she is and what book’s pages she turns.
There’s too much to my ever elongated wishlist. And I feel it hopeless to steer or too much contain. So….. I stop the session, I walk away and back to my home coffee machine for another cup.
(10/19/15)
Want to sit for a thousand words but I’m not holding myself to anything. I’m strangled by time and obligation, and tiring of the patternized words used. A new keyform for me hopefully. A slow surmise of sorts. Told my students that if they’re bored or still in their writing, or “blocked”, then they should do something crazy. But what can I do now here in this home office with my son upstairs asleep and me just here looking at The Bell Jar, and the papers I still have to grade. Next week, digits doubled for term, and soon I’m liberated on my front.
The members today, at their party, for the most part content and conversational. Me, in awe of the wines poured and the surroundings, another ride down the hill on the back of that tractor, or on the flatbed bed pulled by tractor.– I realized on the way down that tomorrow has to be the day, where I wake at 5AM, no matter how tempting it is to go back to that pillow, under that sheet.
Last night’s Cab me calls but I dispute its beckon. Thinking of myself as a winemaker looks interesting from the eyes out, from the vineyards in. Hard to punctuate what I feel and what to say, sing, but it’s on page. Maybe I’ll remember to explain and expand later. Or maybe I won’t. The house is quiet now and I feel I have to type in the same volume and octave as everything else so I don’t stir anything or anyone, little Jack. More I think about teaching, here in the home office and how the full-timers are so sure, some adjunct too, that they’re experts when it comes to form and stories, literature be it poetry or narratives or short stories but have never even self-published or blogged anything, infuriates me. But I return to my moment, this office, or room as soon as you step in the Autumn Walk hut.
What if I decide to teach nothing next term? I won’t do this, of course, as I’ll have two babies at that point, but it’s just something to think about. I can’t enact the craziness I encourage of my students, or at least in this vein. My mood sinks, as I realize I’m weighed down by my age and place in life, my maturity if you could call it that and how I am, just me, this Mike– goddamn it! I just want to write crazily and travel and not look back at anything or anyone, come back home to my babies and tell them everything I observed and lived, read it to them from the journals. I still can, right? Desultory directions only encourage the writer, and the characters around me yes drawing them and drawing from them, everything I can gather and when I think I’m stuck I’ll embrace and enact the crazy in Mike– Frankly, I’m just sitting here on this couch just as I did in the condo and wonder how I should write, how I should change and if change is the bloody solution. “Solution? Solution to what?” I don’t know really. Just helped Ms. Alice prepare a mechanized swing for Ms. Emma. And now the whole wholeness and immediacy of another baby in this house constricts me, yes pleasurably but does constrict. Alice went upstairs and I back to this couch to finish my thoughts but I lost them. They perfectly strayed.
Why am I forcing myself to write on this couch, my scribbler sarcophagus; innate and inane and immobile. And as a writer, I have to ask: “WHERE is my writer story set for, and WHEN?” And I’m not just addressing or entertaining time with ‘when’, I’m talking about character development and me in my zen factored with Personhood and so many other existential variables. I love the meal of journey, thinking of it.. just imagining the here-to-there-ism of it all. And writing along the way, everything, from the fold-down trays on the planes to the clouds you see below the wings, those passing mountains that you swear you’re the first one to optically ingest, to the wine they have onboard– atrocious, yes, but you sip anyway, you don’t care, this is an adventure and you’ve never done it before so you throw yourself in, quick and lovingly; the angel’s spin to a musical nondigital bliss– I’m curious what I’m capable of, terms of testing my written and studious, vocational, efficacy. Tonight I watched a show with Alice but as soon as it ended I noticed myself relaxing with her and not doing much of anything but idling, immobility– that won’t complete a MS, and Ms. Emma nears in her landing. So I rose from the couch to Alice’s irritation and made for the study. Where I began this entry, reading a new book, and now I sip the rest of last night’s Hawley, and forget about all chains, readers who might intersect with these lines and think “wow he writes only about wine, how boring,” or, “What is the point to this?” I don’t mind, and I don’t mind them, pay them even a small cup of mind, not even one of the tasting room’s regulated 1 oz pours. Life is mine and it’s finally talking directly to me with rich stage-worthy dialogue; monologues and soliloquies and sharply stark sentences propelled into the audience’s space, leaving more space for growth and written diarist escape.
I formulated something by happenstance, or maybe not happenstance but by inadvertent intent, meaning I intended it but didn’t know I did; some subtexted dance of the Unconscious– Rescinding certain thoughts, and just going for characters, this new one, not so new, and her name not important in this type but I know her, readers will want to know her, and she will know herself better after I write her.
Only a little wine left. I study my character, the wine’s more so. It’s more interesting than me. I’m writer to it, revolving now around it, that little purple Cab puddle in the coffee cup (was too lazy to reach up and get a wine glass)– It doesn’t care about me, it’s the celebrity. I’m paparazzi.
(10/17/15)
Finally at the desk to write freely. Met with winemaker friend Jesse earlier, and before so met with Gary, former K—- friend for some tasting, the Stonestreet set. Not a “bad” wine there, not in any respect or ramble. In fact, I just finished my second glass from the Chardonnay I bought today.. nice oak ebb with syllabic fruit form and arrangement, placement. Just another brilliant Chardonnay in this recent white wine rile I’ve been on. Thinking what else I have to do tonight.. more house-keeping keeps; officialize website, order business cards… I now see that this content marketing shop will interfere with certain or all writing urgencies– but “Mike Madigan, Author” is an mmc client, so not too much can off the ledge leap. OH– want a night’s capping. But what? More Chard, or one of the Lagunitas?
Smelled the fermentation again today, just on the “Walk” patio, this morning, so now I’m promise a future in wine, making wine for my own label like my friend Jesse and touring the country for pourings and explanations as to why I made the wine I did and what
food I’d pair it with– actually, I want to have food in mind while making my wines, as my sister explained at Dad’s 70th, while introducing the Chardonnay and telling a story of how Mom would not just cook to and with it but sip it as well. Everything I do now is WINE, and all stories are wine-sewn, as so many people talk about terroir I seek to be one truly living it, like Glenn, like Jesse, like my sister– in the vineyard and seeing what the vines want us as winemakers to say.. now, we may not always agree, but there can be a certain syllabic synergy, most luminously.
Tomorrow I’m in the Sanglier tasting room, learning from Chelsea and learning more about their model and wines and how the wines are spoken, what they orate in the TR context–
Just checked on my little Beat, qualmless in his sleep, dreaming of things I;m sur eI have no idea how to interpret, jaded as I am with my age and advance life lording. Night’s cap, at left, a Lagunitas.. should go in other room to watch what I want, something for next week’s lectures.. secured classes for next semester, today; a 5 and a 1A. Remembering when I first started teaching and how eager I was and how I’d go anywhere and teach anywhere, any class and at any place– so eager and they know that they feed on it and us, our optimism and open bags, notebooks and car doors; we’re on the fucking freeway more than at that class’ helm.
But that stops for me.
Now.
This semester.
And next.
And after next, if I get to next, I’ll be a winemaker, writing fulltime and only having priority and universal impetus in my own layered notes and whimsical musings, all wine-riled and ruled.
Such kalological code.
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.
Now in the adjunct cell of Solano and I just can’t motivate myself as I’d want, realizing that now in this stage of my story I only want to be surrounded by wine and wine artifacts, scents, scenes and sensory strings. And not just for the sake of alliteration I note that, but truth and noting the realization this morning. I type without thinking, not caring what comes out as these colleges that profess to be so accepting and supportive and community-oriented care nothing about the adjunct. So at this stage in my story I have to walk away and approach wine like I haven’t anything else in my day, not baseball when younger, not Literary studies when at SSU or Hayward/East Bay. This is a new stage for me, I thought while on Napa Road, passing Scribe tempted to pull over and take some pictures, but didn’t as Time was pushing me to just stay on 12 and get to Solano, driving nearly more than the class’ duration– in fact, yes, the class does not match the drive time. Now, anyone, any reader reading this must recognize that as a problem or at least something to think about especially if you’re considering doing any freeway flying.
I’m starting to wake more, after finishing the last of the 4-shot mocha in the parking lot, here, right after pulling my bag from the trunk. Going to type here in this session and sitting till 11, where I’ll walk over to the overcrowded cafeteria which reminds me more of a prison scene rather than somewhere for the writing adjunct to snatch a snack, get my coffee then come back here and quickly grade the papers.. for 370, the class I “teach” here. I breath deep and wish I wasn’t here, but then am so glad I’m here with these other adjuncts who don’t write, or at least aren’t now, bogged and tied and hogtied by the papers they have to grade, lessons into which they’ll pour the whole of their hearts but less than 50% of the class will be engaged. Sad, education in today’s thought climate. But I can do nothing, I realize, so I move on, wouldn’t call it surrendering just a dismissal of sorts.
I stop to ask myself what I want from today… Well….. Some wine content. Not wine tasting or drinking, at all really, just more content, more for the story and these blogging efforts and putting the story and conversation out there, all wine and wine dreams and tastes of this reality here in Sonoma.. the family business– oh! That new tasting room in Kenwood, should stop by, and possibly even the old Kenwood winery, just stop in to see how they’d react, see what they’re pouring, see if theres any content there for me, for this, the story and the continued curiosity of wine and its whirl, whirlwind, whirling rile that always pushes me to put its pulse on page.
Thinking I may have to do a bit of free “guest blogging” to get my name out there. Just an idea, but anything to keep me from this, out of this adjunct’d pattern. We’re just added junk, it feels. Look how they corral us like this, in here, this shared “office” which is nothing more than a pen for us, like crowded cows or mice in an aquarium for the passing students to look at, on display the academia zoo. This is what I turn my back to. And why wine, then, for the rest of my life as I proclaim? Because it’s life, it’s joy outside in the vineyard with family and at the dinner table with the bottle open. There’s no bitterness or bullying.. only the color of the wine in the glass and the stories perpetuated joyfully.. the entrepreneurial creativity of it all. NONE of that is here.. NONE. But, more ideas precipitate to my Personhood on wine, and wine’s presence.. the glass on the table with me. How I wish I had one with me here in this adjunct’s hole with these other drones around me.. can you imagine the looks on their masks? If I pulled some bottle from my bag, like that St. Francis Merlot that I bought the other day from Ronnie, and just poured it into a paper cup or emptied water bottle? Oh.. one day maybe, if these full-timer pigs and USELESS trustee members keep pushing me. But they won’t. They won’t have a chance to. No.. I’ll be gone before that happens. My mood rises like this morning’s wine country skybulb over tired vines, no fruit only stares from Highway 12 commuters like me.
Have a piece in mind to submit to a ‘big time’ blog. Have to edit it over once more.. wife just texted her tired writing husband, parents coming up for inspection of new home, may bring over dinner.. good! A wine-pairing opportunity, not everything from notes aligned to what echoes back and forth between wine and food, no matter where it’s from, in fact the more pedestrian the better.
I’m struck by a wine opinion piece but I have to get this vent to a thousand words, my inner obsessively compulsively actually frantic frame and form of fruition fortitude. 10:44, so 16 minutes left before having to get coffee. Excited about submitting the article I wrote the other night about today’s wine, the corporate promulgate bottles versus the small family ops that show more life and story and what we are all after– the connection between winery and what we sip. You don’t get that from Mondavi, or Gallo, the Terlatos.
Ugh– time just passes me and makes me chase it. Bastard. Well, I write on and edit minimally if at all, no not at all so you see feel and read hear here the urgency in me, this adjunct in this pen of class beggars, always looking for that next section, that next gig.. “feast or famine” on adjunct described it to me long ago, much like a real estate agent.. well, that’s why I’m a writer. I’d much rather be living by my pen and these keys than in this context and consistency, going from semester to semester with a family to support. I know I’ll always have subject matter, content to produce, something to report and a story to tell, alongside wine. So, as I said, the back turns. The story develops. I grow as a character.