And it starts, Mendo’s final week.  Not at all sad but moving a little slow from Dad’s celebration last night.  70.  He doesn’t look it.  At all.  I said last night when it was my turn to offer words on Mr. Madigan, “My best friend, my hero, my dad..” Words I stand by.  And everyone there, everyone with a deep tie to the family, even people from the Boulder Creek stage.  But this morning I think about Life and how short it is and how we need to have passion, we can’t be passive.  We need to go after whatever gives us life, real life not just existence and a bloody day-to-day.  I’m, the New Mike, a writer.  Even Dad said that the other day when we were getting in his truck and I called myself a beatnik.  He said, “You’re not a beatnik, beatniks don’t have jobs.” And he’s right, their philosophy does reject conventional employment, and I’d sight that Kerouac sketch or blurb I mentioned the other day as evidence, but I qualified myself and said “I’m a writer and an English Instructor.” He closed his door, gently rolled the keys into the catalyzing turn thing and said, “You’re a writer.” And that was it.  No qualifications, no adjustments in his wording, no surrounding adjective garnishment.  Just ‘you’re a writer’.  Coming from him that means everything and confirms what I already know yes but tells me I need, must, have to do it NOW.  Dad was a commercial airline captain, and he didn’t compromise.  And neither will I.  Done.

8:44.  Ready as I’ll ever be for this workshop today with the four classes, two campuses.  So badly wanted to remain in bed this morning.  Light rain on 101 but nothing that startled me till I hit a little standing water right before the North State Street exit.  This campus, so laughable.. and it’s too bad, considering how lovely it is with the radiating greens and intimidating mountains behind the the building and how energetic some of the students are.  Could be my attitude and I will admit to my bitterness to a degree and how this semester, one I never should have elected with its four sections over two campuses, has beaten me.  But I remain, forward and confident.  Nearly forgot about the Dav letter but I won’t.  Would print it now but I’m to head to the room early to set up and be ready for any questions, lack of preparedness, or nonattenders.  Hear a full-timer getting in his office, or hers.  Not sure who it is and I don’t care so I won’t look.  Shit.. forgot my power cord at home office, under desk.  So I’ll be writing pen-to-paper later.  Good it’s better for me.  Went in to get a paper towel from lunch room if that’s what you’d call it and saw the full-timer, woman, I said ‘good morning’ she replied same but barely with life energy or eye contact.  That could be from her ivory tower disposition as one tenured or on track or semester exhaustion like me.  Don’t care.  Done.

Would give anything to have a nap right now, any level of rest.  Didn’t finish my coffee so already I crash, I should have drank the whole goddamn cup but didn’t I had to focus on the drive, the drive that I looked so very heartily forward to before Fall ’14 began equating the 101 to Kerouac’s notion of the Road and how the Road is Life but now I just fiercely deplore it.  It, 101 North to Ukiah, or as I call it ‘kookiah’, represents a commute, the adjunct struggle and pain and minimization; what They do to Us.  No more.  My Dad didn’t deal with such boxing and confinement and I won’t either.  After Wednesday, I’m out, I’m free, no pain about me.

Jack coming home today from his Monterey abuelos’ casa.  Can’t wait to see the little Artist and hear all the new sentences he has prepared.  And I most plumingly look forward to tomorrow morning, when he and I can spend some time together; me taking him to school, walking him to his classroom and him turning to me saying “Go to work!”