One hour and one minute to jam with likes of Evans, Hutcherson, Davis.. when I was in high school, I think freshman and sophomore years, I loved the word and concept of ‘Apex’.. ‘an apex’. Just the thought of reaching it, or being IT.. the highest point. But something about that’s sad as well. Where else do you go? but I have a long way to go before being concerned with such. I turn the volume up and talk to myself about the sensibility of the division, the division of me as an adjunct; one day at the class’ head, instructing and sharing ideas on Literature then next pouring wine like a robot, sharing nothing but a remembered script (not at Arista, but past estate).. damn, I think, but I make it all my own, or try.. typos and typos this morning, so eager to get the words to screen through these shaky fingers on board, from first cup and now this 3-shot mocha.. morning chill only helping, form some concerted paragraph link or sequence–
The adjunct finds new rhythm in muted anxieties.. he summons them and uses them.. he plans for his next session and just goes with what his heart feels. He’ll find his height, he knows and he won’t stop till he gets there– and how, well, through the books, lecturing alongside the masters.. no self-doubt now, he can’t afford that.. 36 nearly and still working part-time.. that’s what adjunct meant, kind of.. actually, the word only assures that you’re part of something, not “part-time” in the contemporary sense which can mean with some steadiness or predictability.. just part, a fragment, a piece, meaning if you were lost or shed the greater portion would still function, right? He doesn’t want to think about that, not now.. he had the semester’s rest to make an impression.. start the revolution, the freethinking band of wily students, that embrace their topics and writing and are guided solely by their own goals, not what the department or institution tells them– and that’s all college was, an institution, he realizes. The adjunct loves to teach, he enjoys the transactions and conversations with energetic students, but the system and the waiting and the never-have-to-guarantee-them[meaning adjuncts] attitude They have is what prompted quills. But he continued with his morning, thinking of what to offer them.. the students, back from Spring Break.. that was always hard, or not so much hard but challenging, possibly obstacle-woven.. the path chosen.. quoting from certain books, on Creative writing, memoir.. the story, with a point, a thesis not so much but an objective, taking the reader to some realizing apex… You want to share your story, he thought.. this is what he’d say on Tuesday.. “You have your story, it’s important.. you have to know it’s important, and you have to tell it as you.. and make the reader think it happened to them, as Hemingway said.. this is the connection.. this is the intimacy that any and all Creative Prose Writers should envision and target..”
The adjunct saw a centrality in his thoughts, that ‘great consolidation’ he’d always hoped for.. no more part-time jobs to amend and support the teaching ‘part-time’ role, or act, or habit.. and it was habit-forming, and They knew it. They knew you’d always chase the class, or classes if you were lucky enough to land more than one.. it was a game to them.. and this morning, he decides to play back, to see it as chess; he had to plan his moves, all, no matter how insignificant or benign. He’d budget his pieces so he could soon, not “one day”, experience that peace of the professional apex– no, artistic APEX. The music told him to just.. let it.. let IT.. let it talk to him and see what happened at the end of the chapter and if he were to just trust the story and his own motions and rhythms then all would be fine. He was fine, fine being an adjunct ‘cause now he’d redefine it.. he’d be that adjunct that made a career from the few classes he was allotted– oh look at him fly, he thought, the syncopation with Hutcherson’s mallets and the keys, he just moved and saw the future and his office and never having to be anywhere and any certain time unless it was to read or lecture or meet a publisher that would try to screw him out of rights, in which case he’s tell the pig to go skip onto a sword.
Another point for Tuesday’s session, he thought; the concept of revision.. challenge it! Yes, you should instill basic principles, he thought, “but don’t let the worry of revision compromise your expressiveness…” he said this to himself aloud.. and he wrote it.. then he’d talk about the concept of fiction and nonfiction and how modern readers don’t care, long as they’re engaged.. in fact fiction writers are often only liars, or convenient contortionists on page, simply changing locations and names.. and what does it matter? Just tell a story! He thought about his story, and if anyone would read it? Sure they would, he thought, especially what was to happen next, the next set of chapters where he’d see the Road and have his own office somewhere in Healdsburg, some office space ON the square, where he’d write at the Grill then return to his desk to write, prep another lecture, then get coffee; walk think roam get a snack then return.. in whatever order he thought ought.

39 minutes. Still jamming with jazz greats, and I just want to stay here, continue this streak of days off, just write and prepare for Tuesday, and a little for Summer– will email SSU Chair to just check in, see what I can land if anything. And if not.. then I’ll formally prep lectures for the Road– in fact, I’ll do that anyway.. Bringing Comp Book with me to winery today and if slow I’ll write out ALL points of address for Tues’.. and time all parcels of discussion. Rubbing eye.. should take allergy pill– will before I forget– There, better. And I climb and climb till I reach some apex, and I will. Know that no ‘They’ can provide it. Only me, and for Self, and FROM Self..
Still with more than enough time. For once, it’s not aggressive, but more so accommodating.. seeing all ideas and observations and items around me with certain lecture pertinence.