my day was very much defined by the visit to Williamson. Stopped by one winery, earlier, close to 11AM, and the guy acted like he was too busy for me, social awkward and pressured, when I told him I was just stopping by to say hello, and maybe do a tasting. His Room wasn’t open yet, so I understand, but there was no call for his disposition. Then I went to Lancaster to pickup my shipment and taste a bit. Walked into the cave with Amanda, a new employee to the estate. Hadn’t been in there since I worked there. She showed me all the corners of the cave and they all looked the same, but now they have a concrete egg, for fermentation (I’m guessing ML, but I could be wrong). Then I went to WW. Had me again thinking that I need to make whatever relationship I have with wine my own, whatever it is and whatever context it takes. Didn’t go to HBG as I wanted to get home, quick as I could, and write the letter to Dawn Williamson, well as the reaction piece to my time there. WAS tempted to go up the street to the golf course as I did my last day at the Sonoma Valley winery, have a beer, maybe a burger. But no. I came straight home. Had lunch, then the meanest most energizing cup of medium roast I’ve had in months. And here I am, writing the last entry for the day with the last of the cab I opened last night. Travel, in the hotel room with a bottle of red, writing, night before I’m to speak the next afternoon, tomorrow, a lecture on Kerouac and his punctuation shunning and embrace (embracing how he shuns conventional punctuation)– Tomorrow’s lectures to be short, as the students in both classes have to arrange their rough drafts, first of term, so after 1A I’ll come back to the condo and start writing my Gorgeous American Grim statement, 500 words at a time I’m thinking– shit, just remembered I needed to backup everything on this monster today, but I didn’t have time and I can say that honestly, I stayed busy, so I can’t be too whip-wavy with my actions, character. I need to just relax, enjoy the connection, or reconnection I made with WW today, and the wines I brought home, that Merlot and Rosé. When should I open them? Maybe this weekend, or Valentine’s weekend. I felt a resurrection in my Sonoma presence today, with wine and my relationship with it, and I realized it was never tarnished, not in the most minuscule of manners. Only have a TR’s worth left in my glass. Damnit, why did I sip it so fast, the St. Francis Lagomarsino Cab? This red is one that forces me to reconsider my own senses and how I interact with wine. And my conclusion, the “result”, if you might: slow down; enjoy; don’t asses, just experience and sip, think… And I finally have time to do just that, now. I can see that others see the New ME, after last Wednesday, how I love, love, love to be in love, with everything and everyone positive surrounding me; the forefront of reflection lies in a smile, or a collection of. I swirl the last sip in the glass, more than likely just over an ounce, smell… chocolate, cherry, vanilla, light oak and damp soil. The palate’s not important. Olfactory’s what adheres most to memory, and that’s what matters to the writer. I couldn’t care less what these winemakers that can barely write their own tasting notes and these sommeliers that can’t write at all would say. I’m noting what shakes me senses and currency, currently. That’s poetic, and to paginated.
Posts Tagged With: Freewriting
midday. In nook with a beer and Alice and Jack at the park with Alice’s friend and her daughter. Looking forward to whatever Mom cooks this evening and some nice wine (which I’ll bring, Lancaster of course). Tomorrow, I’m hoping to run, possibly at the gym and play a little basketball, then come home to be with the little Beat and maybe read a bit and plan lectures for Tuesday. Was wondering where my books were and I forgot I put them upstairs… In sense swirl, post winery release, and I have to say, I’ve never felt this level of rise, of optimism, of forward. I’m here in this chair focused solely on my words and the words of the authors I lecture and my students. I WILL drink to that!
Finally finished the poem, “No Why Of”. Will post it to blog, but as a ‘whoso’ piece, the only magazine, subsidiary if you would of bottledaux. Still need to post Nate’s piece.. one on space and NASA.. door open, breeze into nook, hear cars speeding down Yulupa, for what? Superbowl isn’t till mañana. Keys left, so lovely.. no driving anywhere.. shit, battery low on monster.. quick! PLUGIN!!!
Much better, now I can relax, and you know I do on this couch even when I’m well over 100 prosepulses a minute [words…].. speaking of, I need some new– here’s one, talionic, somewhat how I feel towards a certain industry. But I don’t. I’m thankful, and growing, encouraging me to thob poetically, at least I hope I am. I’m closing in on 36, and I’m aware of everything, everything! MY bank account balance and my clothes and if they’re dirty or clean or missing, and my workout schedule and my papers (ones I haven’t graded and those I’m about to assign), and the time of day, always. Is this a product of age? This couch, forcing meditation, making me gnomic! So, thank you, good couch! Look left, our meek patio, Jackie’s swing, on which I pushed him playfully today, before his nap. He’ll be three, 15 days from now. HOW?
vocally full glass of my sister’s red cuvée.. the one I mentioned earlier. Get-together at Bob’s, nice and diverse and communicative, all about wine. Didn’t get too far into the vertical, but I did encounter three vintages: ’95, ’97, and ’01. I didn’t know something that reprising and drawn could come from the Sonoma Valley AVA. But I learned, and I grew from tasting the wines year to year and now I have more material for ‘Krystal Vision’.. oh how I want to write that novel before the Massamen piece; and I had a thought, a lovely scope, flash just now, my whole literary and novelized career rounded from the lives of my sister and I; she, Krystal, and me Mike Massamen, and there it is, family on page, a “family business” as they love to say in the wine world but many times it’s just bullshit. But with my MSS it’d be truth, so truthful. The red tonight, more settled, more serene, more mirroring to my preferences, and what else am I supposed to look for? I’m a consumer just like anyone else and I want to sip wines I like, no? The effects of the red are staring to catch me, and I didn’t sip that much at Bob’s house, and I didn’t have a glass as day’s end, today, but I’m slowing, I see, but I’m fighting, potently. No distractions, just prose and stories and the people coming into the tasting room to taste but also some of them for answers, answers to what?… Who knows, it’s wine, that’s what I repeat to myself, but for someone from Iowa or South Dakota, say, it’s more; it’s mythic, it’s Gregorian, palatable Pantheon. And it’s only wine, that’s what I repeat to myself but I live here, it’s my life and I do see myself slowing, I have to type faster like Kerouac before he submitted his ‘Road’ manuscript.. how did he do that drunk? I’m barely bent and I keep having to delete and retype. Driving around the property with Sophie today reminded me of the spell and liturgy of the the vineyard and the Naturalism surrounding the commercial, the transactions, the wine club signings and all the ‘goals’. What? This is Heaven! And we trivialize it! We bastardize it! We reduce it to campaigns and banners and billboards on 12, or 29, or 128.. frustrated with what I see and in love at the same time, wine.. dividing my diligence, so sip whence…
Bed, sleep, sounding more than musical at moment. I need to finish this glass so I can close this night, the chapter that is.. and the bar, not full today, no as much as yesterday, and not as much material, disappointing. And the wine’s done, there, done, now I can close the day. Staring at the empty glass, I think of myself on the Road and having to give a lecture the next day and how I should be in trot of going to bed at more regular hour, like now, 9:23. Why am I not in bed? Tomorrow morning I’ll try to get little Kerouac to school early then to Kenwood to write, maybe some of that hit-and-miss coffee they have in the container in the back by the breakfast burritos. But I need to stay in this barreled bind, in wine, at all times, but tomorrow nothing of such sway! I’ll be running, then the next morning to ‘Road’ with 1A, then to ‘Sur’ with 1B.. I see completely all that’s me… Need sleep. Singular speedy shift, then I skip…
Now at Petaluma situated in the Reading Room, from which I haven’t logged in well over a year, not since Fall ’13. But my 1B syll is copied, and now I can collect myself. Three other students in here with me, one definitely studying or doing homework with her laptop open, the other with just a book open (though now she packs, leaves..) and the other, the only male, looks as though he struggles to read from the book in front of him… Before leaving the mainland, I spoke to Michael, a full-timer, in fact one of the fulltimers I cited early with a seemingly elevated lean to him, with the lowered eyelids and bla bla, he actually wrote his disertation on Jack Kerouac, I found out after Anne-Marie introduced us and she said she thought of me when she saw some Kerouac book copies at a Petaluma bookstore and thought “I know someone who might be interested in this.” Michael, to my shame and humility and overall perceptive reshaping is quite kind, extremely well-read, just finished his dissertation last semester and looks tired. Excited to be done but tired. I told him I had, have still somewhat, the PhD bug. He told me only do it if I really want it, no if I feel I have to, and only do it if there’s no charge, if it’s free. I asked him how this was possible and he said that’s what he worked out with, I think, Ohio. He also said it was abusive, petty, among other harsh tags and reprimands– I find it hard to focus now as I’ve been up so long. Have a coffee, one free, I poured for myself in the copy room, first floor of the Pace building (I think it’s called). Class doesn’t begin for another 38 mins, and one hour. But I have plans to keep myself awake with writing and I know I can last and log every sight and feeling here on my again-new grounds. The parking lot, nearly empty. Maybe it’s too early for most and maybe this is just a commuter school, or with a heavy commuter element and/or population.
The coffee cools and I try not to I try to keep with this radicalized pace in my prose. May have to hike across the condensed quad to get another cup. And I will if I have to, but… This morning’s 1A went musically. More energy than I expected from such an early group. But with how tired I am now, after class, after this first meeting which is sure to be short (the 1A this morning lasting about 90 mins, including students that stuck around after session for clarifications, songs, remarks), how will I feel after the 1B? Will I want to return to the Redwood Café as I did in f ’13 for some writing (then doing so when on a layover before an evening 1A), or go home to nap as Alice said I should? I need to stay awake, write, fight the hunger to sleep, and eat– although that couch and the condo’s early afternoon quiet would surely revive me. But then, my café, and the memories still fresh of all those Fillmore cafés up the road from our hotel… Another student enters, definitely a commuter, an older gentleman with a construction/blue-collar character motion and dress (blue jeans) enters, now rises to leave as do the girl with the computer.. what do I do, what do I do? Do I stay here in the Reading Room or walk around the library? But what would I look for?
Logged the poem I wrote earlier, in the mailroom before meeting Michael. I’m quite upset with myself for judging him as I did last semester when I saw him talking to students in his office and talking to other fulltimers. Why do I do that, judge as I do sometimes? Something I’ll work on, like my talking frequency.. if I wrote much of what I voice, like at work for example, I’d have dozens of novels out. And on that noise and note: I need to print something this week– know I’ve said that before but I do. This blog can’t be the full and sole representation of my publishing marks and schemes. No, I will print something, maybe whoso minus Nate’s piece and Amber’s work… Maybe have whoso be an every-other-month release from me, Mike Madigan.. poems and scribbles and sketches, vignettes, short shorts.. whatever. Now I wake, waking up as I didn’t expect to. Alice just messaged me, demanding she pick up little Kerouac so I can sleep. So that’s what I’ll do, go home, rest, re-collect my ardor and fire, allow my Personhood to assess what it has collect on and in this first day of term.
So quiet in this room. Perfect for planning English 1B introduction. Going to advise students, as I did in 1A, to get to know Mr. Kerouac before reading him, have an idea of who you’re about to meet, his writing style and past and loves and perils, everything. And what is Beat? What does it mean to be “Beat”? The girl with the laptop remains as does the guy struggling with his book. He seems to be more connected to his task and less burdened, not moving as much but only to turn the page, and I underline portions of Big Sur to quote today, how JK saw everything as material and wanted to better understand everything and why he was part of that everything. I have to write a letter today, to someone, to either Amber or Nadav, or maybe to an old professor, but who? Gillian? Yes, Gillian, my only ever poetry mentor and idol. She always supported my poetic visions and practices and embrace of music as part of my scribblings, how I recited and went into the lines as I did. Wonder how she’s doing and what else she’s written lately, or published. Just learned she published a book of poems in early ’14, I think. But either way, I should write it now, here in this quiet room before I get too heavy-headed, and with eyelids soaked in exhaustion and all hours collected and pocketed since 4:50-something A.M.
I should feel different this morning. More excited or relieved or something, that this is the last Mendo day, the last drive up here, ever, ever… But I’m laced in angst and anxiety, stressed– why? What the hell is with me this morning? Maybe it’s the 4-shot mocha, haven’t had one of those in some time. And I feel like I failed with this Mendo assignment, in some regards. But then I think I’m being too hard on myself so I don’t know, I don’t know. But I’m here, on my last day, just stuffed the Dav letter and 500-word piece in an envelope I stole from the supply cabinet in the breakroom, or LUNCHROOM, as that one sourpussed adjunct snarled at me at the beginning of the term, the transaction going “Do you mind if I eat this here?” I said, referring to my salad — “It’s the lunchroom,” the twit replied. I’d be miserable as well if this were my base as an part-time community college instructor. Yes, I’m done. On so many levels I don’t have time to produce a list. Roll sheets printed, going to offer one last word of the day for the students, well as a quote, and I’m done. When at SRJC I should have at least 2 hours of writing time. There, today and tonight, I just plan on checking rough drafts, sticking around for 1-on-1’s if they want, then adjourning. Semester done– so why am I in this misty swirl of an ebb and character pulse? Need to do my budget, for ‘Mp’ and family and house savings. Leaving me close to nothing. But that’s fine, I don’t need anything other than books, pen and paper. And in this new year I’m using this goddamn thing a lot less. Writing, writing… In fact, tomorrow at Palooza, in my loft office, writing will be doted in the parameters of the Comp Book. Was thinking of something now I lost it– oh yes, the Comp Book.. where the hell is it? There, found it, buried in bag. Budget started, already I’m thinned. Caffeine wearing, and I won’t drag as I did the other day, Monday, morning after Dad’s party, no not today. I’m raising my mood and I should I’m free, free from this commute and this campus and the lack of centrality and now I have more time for me, ME, time to write and run and be with little Kerouac, my ever-artisanal son!
Need a quote for the day, but by whom? Or FROM whom… On way back, I’ll get a picture of that one vineyard in Hopland that I always glared at carefully driving south. Think my phone’s charged, but if not I’ll charge my camera battery in the classroom, use that rather. So quiet down here, this bottom floor, no one else. No full-timers, or those constant adjuncts, nothing, just me and these words.. happenstance? Who knows, but I’ll take it. Ride home, already looking forward to it, or the ride to SRJC I mean, hours of writing on the Kerouac floor and I don’t care if students are around me I’ll stay there anyway, observe, immerse myself evermore in studentdom. And the mood comes back– What is going on with me, the entanglement, the roar of dull waves in an inner oceanic tilt. I’ll write my way through it. Asking myself the expected and trite hallmark card-ish question: “What did I learn from this assignment, up here in Mendo, from taking it to following through with it?” Hard to write, but not to take too much to the plate, and that all ends, anything that disgruntles you will eventually be extinguished. And my expressive senses stand more solidified on this December 10th. And here I am, realizing I never have to come here again, ever, if I don’t want to. And that’s one thing adjuncts don’t realize, much of the power is with us, what we say ‘yes’ to and what we refuse. We have the druthers, just as much as them. True, they decide if we become full-time, but if I don’t want to take your dismal developmental section and whatever o’clock I don’t have to, and there’s nothing they can do. Well, they could not hire me back for next semester, but I’ll live, I’ll always live, and as I said on Monday my focus is Life, MY Life and my family’s. I’m a writer and I’ll write it all out, write myself away from commutes and campuses like this. Up term’s close, I victor. Now, for that quote…
That means 94 more. Thinking like I always do about what I want from my professional life, and I mean complete idealism is what I’m entertaining on this couch. No wine tonight, I need the thoughts clearer than they’ve been. French.. I need to get back to my French studies, and completely immerse myself in the language. That’s one thing. Another, I want to have another writing session in that second floor of Palooza tomorrow. And talk to Jeff, see what he has planned in the way of events. How do you build a business like that without hitting a wall? Have to write it out, think, and talk to him. Tired. And more grading to do tomorrow. This, note, will be the last time in my life I’m in this position. And the cold or whatever’s about me, remaining; sore throat, slight sniffle, and tired. But tomorrow I’ll be renewed. And writing. And upstairs I’m walking ready for new day but also needing rest. Conflicted not so much as I’m eager, eager for Newness and for a new book, and for December, days of no class and more runs, running during daylight and not on a treadmill as I now HAVE to do.
…maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental or presupposing. Maybe he owns his own business, contracts this work and does quite well. I don’t have for– that’s at the peak, the highest and most atmospheric of my wish list. So cheers to this man carrying that plastic can. If that is in fact the story with him.
8:57, and I agree with my pace this morning. About to head to the small postoffice and mail Dav’s materials, finally. Idea for short: teacher that thinks of retiring after hearing back from an education journal, asking him to speak at a school near its office. He accepts the invitation, speaks, then is asked to consult at that school and others nearby. He doesn’t but wishes he would have. Writes several lectures and talks to be given to his high school teaching colleagues. First, at a meeting. Average reception.. second, typed and printed and put into mailboxes.. then… not sure where it goes from there. Just something I’m thinking of. Staying in journal for now.
Burrito done. Weedblower right behind my car. Annoying. But I shouldn’t be writing here, truth told. Time to mail Dav’s papers. Where are they?… Somewhere in that workbag of mine. And that’s another part of teaching–or adjuncting–that I deplore, carrying that goddamn bag around. No wonder my lower back hurts from time to time. It’s not the running. Now quiet. No groundsmen around me. Strangely I feel alone, ignored, left to my word warpings and idea slab.
9:21PM. Just went outside to laundry room to see if clothes were ready, and no– boring, I know. But rain is coming, and the run for tomorrow morning, around 4 or 4:15 is still on. No wine tonight. And no ice cream. About to have 7UP as night’s cap. Tomorrow night I’ll open a Lancaster, probably an SB. More than likely will be raining while I run in the dark. Never done so and only have one such early morning run under belt, so I have no idea what to expect maybe some odd sounds or other early runners, hope I see one or two, no way I’ll see three. I’ll be charging phone tonight and ready for this run– nearly feel like I do the night before a race. Honestly. And when back in home, I’ll write, hopefully a couple hundred words in journal, maybe start a standalone from the notes I took today at Palooza. Only had one beer, wrote at counter instead of my upstairs safehouse or office. Need to bring Jeff a bottle of wine sometime, show him how much I appreciate his pervasive and steadfast hospitality. Thought of starting a series of standalones rooted in that beer room, something like ‘The Palooza Pages’, or ‘Pub Sketches’, or.. ‘beer writes’. Again, just playing with ideas at the moment. whoso due tomorrow, basically, but I won’t make deadline. Goddamnit! I’ll finish editing on the night of Nov 1st, my writing retreat night, and bring to printer the next morning. That’s what must be done for me to move on and out of wine industry grips.
7UP open. Only taking a couple sips then I quit. Don’t want to be in constant visit to the bathroom, so like I said, only a couple extractions. My anterior caprice…
Day over and we had one group, Nate and I. Nate’s words, describing over-oaked wines, “wood water”, and something else I won’t put on this log’s lappings. Or maybe I will, as he said it to one of the group members, “Every group has an Amy.” Thought it was funny and worth writing, simply. Sipping what’s left of the sparkling wine Alice bought the other day, relaxing me and focusing at the time same, how odd and how new, how telling. So tomorrow, grade quick when at Mendo then print whoso issue.. edit during office hours then to next project– releasing everything, everything, each page. Not aiming to be “prolific”. Hate that word. I want to be inescapable as a writer, everywhere, confrontational but unintentionally.
Tired from yesterday and today just has me in all the curvings of a knot. Doing more research on winemakers and winemaking and what harvest does to a winemaker, the early morning and late nights and commuting– if they commute– and the stress and demand, even if they are a one man show like my friend Kaz. 2014 has been interesting, both in terms of grape character over drawing board in addition to all surrounding wiring. And I realize life is too short, too short for worry and nonsense and anything not positive. It’s night, and the constellations make themselves visible and talk to me, over with a repeated synergy. And this is a product of the vintage, 2014– now I’m NOT a winemaker, but a writer, but I recognize and observe and see how they, the production team’s reacting and behaving and talking as the fruit comes, came, in– this year’s different. And it’s enough to make me write, want to report everything, and I think with the dinner Blair and I’ll have on Saturday, 11/1, I’ll ask him about the vintage, how it made him feel– already gathering material for the next whoso issue, 1/2015. And I forgot what else I was going to write. I’m making this vintage my own, giving wine another chance in that I’m not letting mySelf get too stressed or at all stressed about anything. So.. wine.. drink enjoy live love. Right? So what am I opening this Saturday night, when home from Blair’s? Not sure. I’m thinking a Lancaster. OR one of my St. Francis artisans. OR, one of those Washington wines I was given a while back. Last year? Can’t remember.
Fruit sorting. All this new tech with winemaking. What are my thoughts? I don’t know. If in the end I have a wonderful bottle I’m not too sure I care but I never forget about Artistic integrity, nor do I dismiss the integral nature of artistry, creating. Ever. But I look deeper into winemakers and what they do and why they make certain decisions and elect certain equipment. Ugh, I think, now I want a glass of wine, maybe two– but no! Tomorrow’s the writer’s early day, on the distant micro-campus. On my way out tomorrow, Mendo, I’ll stop and take pictures of those leaves, the vines picked, see what they say to me, see how they lather my curiosity.
Tasted a PS [Petite Sirah, at lunch, Palooza]; odd nose nice grip and texture but lacking fruit. I know it’s a Petite Sirah but it should have some subtlety and ballet about its shifts and riffs.
a fanged mood already. You know why, you know and you know me and you know it would fracture my mood, either slightly or significantly, that review. Mendo. I’ll specify, why not, what do I have to lose at this point. Downstairs in dark, mouth dry from the Zin last night and ales that encircled. A problem with my writing that can’t be overlooked, lashings from a full-timer, a teacher, how much a writer be he I wonder. If any point to be remembered or relished in this transaction it’s this: the writing has to happen NOW. No more of this delay and play with certain methods and recipes or tricks– it has to be this. And, as my wife said quite starkly last night after Mom and Dad left, “so who cares?” She’s right. I’m not teaching there next semester or ever a-bloody-gain and it’s Mendocino… Mendocino College. In Ukiah. Ukiah. Where’s that? I’m a writer, my own Beat has been carved at this old age 35 and I’m not budging or compromising. My teaching’s fine, okay, but my writing cited? I can only laugh, in the dark here with this Sahara tongue. Water, that Perrier that Alice bought, wonderful– I’m sharpened and I have to be and with thicker skin like Kerouac with people reviewing his words his books and sharings. I guess why I’m bothered is ‘cause I’m tired at this age; tired of being reviewed and approved and applying and the back-and-forth and the commuting and the trying. “So stop it, stop it all,” a voice says, probably one of my characters from the novel, either Glenn or Dav, or Crystal the winemaker. And like my sister once told me, “if you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” Or never write which is what I was drawn, my character, Mike Madigan, to do. Would I want to be him, I ask myself, the full-timer that gave the review, be a full-time English teacher at a removed and obscure college that’s known for…? No. Now, if this review came from SSU, or SRJC, or even Napa when I taught there, I’d have reason to be even more hungover than I am, but this is silly– I would deplore that role and reality, a teacher there. “That’s where I teach,” I can’t hear myself say. “I write, I self-published a novel and am selling it.. I wrote it how I write not how I think it’d sell, or it should be written.” There I am, me… And then further into this dream I add, “And I lead a fiction seminar at Stanford.” Ha ha, I reel to myself. I know what I want and this, that school, isn’t part of it. So he can sip his self-indulgent defamation and entitled mumbles up there in the mountains, on that campus that barely outsizes this condo complex.
Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t. Yesterday, more than crazy at winery. More of that crazy you’d expect from a rainy day where the only alternative’s to taste inside. Wrote down one line, from a guest, not sure where he was from and I overheard him say this to Gary who was pouring right next to me at day’s end, for a little over and hour and a half: “Old vine Zins always taste too incense-y to me.” Funny thing, I somewhat agree with him and understand his idea, so what did I write it down? I’ve never heard it put that way with those words before– well that and I didn’t write anything the whole shift into my little pages so I thought I should scribble something. I poured my people the ’11 Cab and turned around, brandished the little pages and used the back bar for support.
Wonder what Mr. Dav is doing. Still haven’t sent him that letter. I’ll print it tomorrow at Mendo and send it from SRJC’s base. Keep typing, I tell myself down here, keep typing. 6:45, and I hear Jackie upstairs, coughing a little and saying something to Alice who’s probably only wanting to sleep, poor thing. Going up to rescue her and him and further distract myself this morning. That review of my teaching or writing, now far past my care, gone into some sewer of dismissed ideas where it certainly belongs. And when we meeting, this reviewer and I, I’ll be silent, no comments, I won’t waste my words or respiration or time. I’ll just nod and tune out and leave. And, frankly, I have to get to SRJC so he only has so much time anyway. As much as I permit and budget.
Jack and I now, on the couch, Alice sleeping upstairs. I’ll make sure she rests till 8. She told me that he was kicking and nudging her all night, my poor wife. I’m sipping the only k-cup I had left. Well, I have those decaf doses but those are worthless at this hour, or any hour other than those close to bed. This coffee bouncing in my rhythms, just what I needed.
I just looked at the evaluation again and it’s just plainly droll, dull, and just what I wanted now that I see my students highly approve of my performance, in fact he himself even noted that my student evals are “exceptional”, and that most obviously means more to a writer like me than what some full-timer documents from having to. My students’ approval has value. His thoughts are just part of a machine, a track, an intoxicant that he’ll probably read to himself and show off to the other FT-er hogs. “Look what I did…” Pig.
Miss the rain. Want it to come back and I want my little boy’s cold or sniffle set or whatever afflicts him to just bloody fly away. Now he plays on the ground with a small colony of coins he took from me; everything, pennies nickels dimes even quarters. He won’t give them back, “My money!” he reminds me. This is what matters, him, my little Artists, and my students; that they’re pleased with my lessons and the ideas that I offer.
I need more coffee and more time to write, prep for tomorrow. I know how tomorrow will be approached, just how, Mendo will be conducted slightly differently, meaning I will have my students there enjoy their session with even thicker pleasure entanglements both in idea and expression and the reading– and with Hemingway on the platter now.. we have only the fruitful ahead of us. I’ll wake tomorrow morning, I’m hoping, when my mother-in-law does, before 5. I’ve always admired that about her. I’ll try to run tonight, just five miles, which means NO tasting today. Nothing. I’ll let the guests tell me how it tastes and what characters and notes they encounter in the wine.
Jackie continues to throw two footballs at me, one small, which he calls the baby, and the other which is ‘dada’. He laughs and stresses about nothing, bothered by nothing, just enjoys his morning around me while I type and record whatever I can to make myself feel like a writer. When Alice wakes I’ll go get us coffees and then come back to shower. I’m realizing that the music in my life is everywhere and that’s where the truth and gems are. Not in the routine and the documented and the official.
IDEA: write a short piece, three pages, and distribute to SRJC colleagues.. no selling, just promo, sharing, for Art’s love, Life– and I know what to do, what to write, about what.. that eval from that gudgeon full-timer only convinced me that I’m a writer, one who will by the pen his way, and won’t be in the adjunct role or anything stricture-bound or pinned by any document. I’m on and in my own Beat. No more being beaten.
start an adjunct log, for other adjuncts– start a real movement, maybe I’ll then get “picked up”. Yeah? Or just detail my details of my barely detailed day. Right now, I’m in the cell, the shared office they let us adjuncts use. How generous. And yes, I wonder what it’s like to have one of those rooms, those offices to myself. But I’ll just keep thinking. Had to take a break from a stack of papers ’cause the writing hurt me so horribly– ears eyes mind and stomach. But I can’t blame the students for the ill-prescriptions of high school. And I won’t let this cage, this cell, this shared office I’m in drive me any madder. We adjuncts forage, but only from letting them, letting them do this to us, and letting US do this to us. What if I said ‘no more’, that I would only write about the adjunct life, that I don’t want to do it anymore and that I want to write about it to be a voice for us, the ones who aren’t complacent and distant and self-anointed in our cozy little corners, decorated to expose our biases and agendas and be a selfish advertisement; and so many of them are like that– when you’re full-time you sigh, you exhale and you lay down, relax, and if students don’t like your ways and methods and ideas (if they offer any innovative ones, anymore in their career, or even teach, speak with sincerity and connection), then who cares. You’re full-time. And if you’re tenured, then fuck the world! What can it do? You could light the quad on fire and they can barely engage you in discussion or ask why you did it. I have too much shape and color for such a fluff cloud. I’ll stay an adjunct FOR the adjuncts. For my students. And if I’m ever full-time, then I’ll still work for them; offer to be voice for them, for us, even if I’m one, technically, of THEM.