Posts Tagged With: Art


Not stressing as much about not-writing, moments I can’t keyboard, or Carpe-journal.  Remember what you do, record later.  Class tomorrow, and I think I’ll begin with this—  morning’s proving not as irksome with this sleep dep’.. coffee, quite effective, efficient, effulgent, ways I don’t remember it being.

Wine friend of mine on Road pouring in Boston, now NYC.  Already cooking ideas for article, ‘breaking the story’ as the journalists say with Literary intent as I do.  Quelling any Weltschmerz, opening eyes.. that label, that Pinot I tasted, their story.  Following her Road’d narrative like a meal-stripped Kodiak.

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I WILL finish the thousand word effort I started last night.  And last night/early morning, a skirmish with both babies, refusing to sleep and Alice and I trying to convince both of sleep’s boons there was no correlation in language.  So I sip coffee now and focus on the keys, the wine I tasted last night (the Ridge), and bottle of my ’12-something once back home.  My story is wine, my voice and patois.

At the kitchen island; brush, flattened cereal box to be tossed into recycling, pizza box… need the Square.  My Sonoma-Paris.  My Oakville table.

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Third night of no wine.  Ice-cream instead.  Hoping to wake early and write, material to be sold, printed and sold.  An annoying cough remains, that makes it difficult to complete a sentence.  Surprised I made it through the 1A class, held office hours after as I did.  I should feel completely recovered and out from under this bug’s wing by tomorrow morning.

Going to kitchen now, set the coffee, get new cup out—  I cough twice, become annoyed, lose interest in this sitting, the words the type the everything of this moment.  Why’d I have to get sick now?

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She’s not sick, I can see, and she can’t teach 90 minutes or even a full two hours of material?  I’m an adjunct, quite aware that I may never be full-time, and I’m the sickest I’ve been I think since 2007, and I ran out of time with the English 5-ers.  I didn’t have anything close to “enough”.  Am I bragging?  Maybe a little.  Am I bitter?  Why wouldn’t I be.  But I don’t want to spend this hour fuming, or hurling inner sour barbs.  I want to think about the semester and what I want to do with it, how I want to lecture, and how I actually just handed back all those papers on-time—  The full-timer came in, I told her I overheard her talking and that it was hard to teach so early.  She says she’s teaching a 1A from 7-9.  I told her about my 5 from 0730 to 0900.  She said she couldn’t do that, “I’d really have to be on my game,” she said, “5 is more Literary and Philosophical where 1A is more mechanical, or at least the way I teach it.” Well, I thought, “shouldn’t that make it easier, more patterned and less welcoming to variable and tangent?”  Her eyes were low, “Nice to meet you… Get yourself some coffee.” She answered, “Oh, I don’t drink coffee during the week.” What the hell?  Why are you doing this to yourself?  The coffee might make it easier.  But of course, being so aloft with her full-timer/tenured presence, she can’t agree with me that coffee might help, or even concede to a minuscule entertain of breaking her asinine ‘no coffee during the week’ bullshit, to help her teach better.  To be stronger for her students.  No, full-timers don’t have to do that.  “And,” I thought, “you’re a full-timer, why do you take these morning 1A’s if they’re so torturous?” She told me she’d been doing them for years…  Again, WHY?  I don’t understand the mentality of these full-timers, most of the time.  And I don’t want to be that.  I want to be this, the one writing, the one having it HIS way.  She also made a remark about me working here at this head of the conference tables: “So you like working here, not in the—”

“In the cell?” I said.

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Young man at Starbucks said “Okay there you go.”

“What do I owe you?” I said.

“Well you have the cup, so it’s free?”

“Isn’t that just for the month of January, though?”

“I’m not sure, but … enjoy your coffee.”

“Thank you.  Thank you.. thank you so much, have a great day,” I said back-walking for the door.

Now in adjunct cell, papers graded and recorded.  Strong start to day but that could change.  See what happens, if it turns as the past few have.

Again with printing topic.  My students ALWAYS print something.  Not hiding in some blog.

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Still recovering from this cold or whatever bug-type has finally punched through my defenses that fought it off for a better sliver of a week.  To “work” today, though where I “work” one day a week in the tasting room could hardly be deemed any kind of serious “work”.  Yes, I’m in a mood, writing father not sleeping well last night then pulled from downstairs peace by eager near-4 year old.  Can’t blame him.  Only envy.  That he has not these concerns.  I can return to that, right?  Through these articles.  And, just not caring.  Print, release.  Travel.

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So Many Miles, A Few Times

Went home between classes and found that I left the most recent little notebook in the pack pocket of one of my khaki pairs.  “Shit,” I thought, “it had that writing I did the other morning about Jack and I hanging out and the metaphors of the sea and sharks and how time was a shark, and how we read books and hung out and… SHIT!” But why am I getting this way?  Learn from it, grow from this folly.  I’m obviously with too much in a multitude of regards.. too many comp books, too many writing projects, too many pages here and there, too many docs on this laptop.  Too much does nothing of benefit for the writer.  So I stop and breathe and before I go home after a wondrous session with the 1A-ers, I remind myself of singularity’s boon and inherent advantageous nature.  And I recommend students not stray too distant from any given core, or epicenter, or nucleus.  If you have one Composition Book for your writings, or some place where you log your thoughts, be they for some assignment or something you’re working on, remain in that one singularized ethereal echo.

A long day for the writer/professor, teacher, instructor-whatever, so I head home yawning and entertaining just going to bed early.  “But then I wouldn’t be writing,” I think to myself.  Well, that’s quite another panegyric pulse in a writer’s life.  When you don’t write.  “What?” you might at me throw.  Well, it’s true, I’ve found.  Some of the best writing you do is when you don’t write.  If it’s meant to stay with you, it will.  Like the writings I lost in that journalist mini-tablet.  I just have to re-write it.  That’s it.  This could be the exhaustion giving way to an even more obsessive octave than I already exercise, who knows.  I’m too tired to think about it.  Time for home.  Time for rest.

But when I get home I find there’s things I need to get done.  With writing, for school, for the wine world, nothing stops for me and the atmosphere that pervades won’t allow me to pause even momentarily.. part of me finds this incredible in being a writer, the whole ‘never stopping and always living, gathering material’, but the other deems it altogether repugnant.  “Can’t I just take a bloody break?” I ask.  No ‘bloody’, but rather ‘goddamn fucking’.  My honest argot.  But that helps no one, confessing that.  I put the papers I have to grade right on the desk’s top, so I can’t ignore them.  Not even for an hour, or minute.  Would I recommend student try this behavior?  Curtly, NO.  Live more than you write, don’t always have IT in your thought-stream.  This is a handicap with me, assuredly.

I cough a couple times, take a sip of the Zin and think about the next day, a day off denotatively.  The connotation is “that’s what’s on paper”.  There is no day off for the diarist-style writer, the one always scribbling and dreaming of pages and afraid to sleep as he could be moving that ink along the line.

Sick, I know.

I should have left myself in the washer, dryer.  Thrown myself into that tall plastic dump under that sink.



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a writer

12:29, and I think about tomorrow’s classes, this new adjunct blog I started, and the PhD possibility.  More singularity and simplicity in my days and with everything I do.. huh, I think, “simplicity, singularity, why do we always tell ourselves we need more?” And I look out at the alley across the street that takes you to Bravas, how I wish I were a tourist somewhere, or on a “business trip” with my teaching and writing.  Soon, I tell myself, “soon”.  A lot sooner than I think, I think.


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…coffee, have to have coffee.. all professors drink coffee, right?  So, go!  Get a cup.  Know you’re New today, Professor Mike, that the world will feel your instruction and adjunct’d ire, and that you’ll rise far above the adjunct pit and story, the hold of that world that you’ll be your own form of professor and that it’ll never be replicated in this generation or the next.  The career you build for yourself will be a high and an intoxication that no fancy bottle can replicate.

7:03.  Surprised my son still hasn’t come down yet.

7:14.. after using restroom when upstairs to check on wife and daughter, both asleep both tranquil, both undisturbed by my light trot through the room trying to find pajama bottoms.  No luck, but I didn’t frustrate, had to get back downstairs I knew so I approached the stairs then was stopped by clouds and how the waking sun was adjusting their color composition, or “palette”.  I prefer ‘character’, but anyway what I saw were thinning clouds with touches of light pink and orange, faint blood red, grey and silver and something of a pink-inferred grainy white-black synergy.  I’d never seen a sky like it, and had to just watch it and stare as I knew and still know that will never happen again, with the moment’s ingredients all as they were; wife and babies asleep, the heater in motion, cozy home, peace.  Consuming and convincing peace.. a meditation.  Should have been a philosophy major like Dad.  In fact, I want more of these “philosophy’-leaning thoughts and lecture ideas to be in class with me.  And tomorrow it starts.  With a question:  “Who’s seen something or felt something significant, recently?” And that was just it, I thought at the stairs, before coming down here and pressing “BREW” on the Keurig, “This is something.” And not in the banal suggestion of “epiphany” or even “revelation”.  What was at the stairs’ top with me was undefined and I don’t want it defined, I just want it to remain a feeling.  And I’m sure this is much what Hunter S. Thompson’s character felt in ‘Fear/Vegas’.  It was just something for me to acknowledge, not make “sense” of…

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Project A

The semester starts today, but I don’t teach till tomorrow.  7:30AM.  They won’t know what hit them, these English 5 students.  And with all positive intents.. my enthusiasm, elevated.  My ownership of my pages and position as a professor, ascended and more emphatic…

This is the semester that sends me to the Road.  I’m sure of it.

All these other professors and teachers and whomever is a writer, but not like me.  This is where I show them and the world and light their world in a resplendently grandiloquent blaze.

Cup 2 for me this A.M., and I’m prepared for the next 18 weeks.  Finishing my new book by

Week 9’s end.  And send the bloody thing out.  I’ll be blending that memoir I wrote in ’14/’15 with the novel I wrote in 11-2015, and some other works.. this memoir is meant to be a rejection of my own limiting patterns.. writing something and letting it sit in this laptop or the blog, when I should be selling every goddamn thing I write and type.

So no more.  By the end of term, I’ll be on a flight, somewhere to speak.


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