Posts Tagged With: Philosophy

Decided that I’m not

budging.  This is my writing style, or mode, or voice and that’s all I’ll ever do, responding to my moments and days– now: quiet downstairs, rain stopped for a couple hours the forecasts says; Alice asleep upstairs, or falling asleep and Jackie asleep for who knows how long.  No coffee in house so tomorrow’s set to be rough.  OH well.  That’s the stage for morrow.  And the rain, coming back.  I’ll wait.  One of Jackie’s stuffed animals, the Cookie Monster bloke, on the floor.  What’s it doing down here, I wonder.  Never know with the little Artist.  His habits and ways change whenever he sees adequate.

Think I have a new story idea but I’m going to let it simmer a bit, or age, or ferment– analogy prolonged.  And what kind of writer am I?  I don’t know.  One trying to write, trying to fucking finish something.  What if I go in late tomorrow, spend more of the morning writing?  Am I allowed to do that?  My students get to, I’m sure, so why can’t I?  What can’t I just be a Literary delinquent?  Playing hooky not to go party, or taste wine, or dine out, or be lazy with Alice or anyone.. but just to write, read over my work, send it out?  Be meditative all day on this couch.  Coffee, jazz, pages, me, cognitive drops of resolution, radiate…

Who says you can’t?

True, but there’s a new affairs set.

So what?

10:16.  Should get to bed soon.  I know the little Artist is going to wake around 3, or 4, and it’s my turn to fall back to sleep with him.  Am I up for it?  Hope so.  I’ll fall asleep I’m sure thinking of the 9:30 student’s reading, about addiction and breaking from the pain pill addiction and being drowned in withdrawal symptoms.  Was horrifying to hear but motivating, he was there, in chair, eager with his standalone submission, and we all listened, applauded.  Great moment for me, yes as a “teacher”, but more so as writer, Human.


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Today, everything


Everything.  Nothing, NOTHING foists my fruition, or aim, or images.  Everything recorded.  Not even wine club members with their tireless pestering.  Nothing.  I’m a wine club member…  Or, “I’m a member…” Not even a hello.  Good for you, but I’m not listening.  I’m looking at the vineyard, the leaves, red and green and yellow, light gentle mocha brown.. dessert and lunch, coffee, rest for me, meditation.  Zen, principle in my personhood.  Transfixing my sight to pages and books to be written.  Collection tomorrow and today.


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Quiet in this bottom floor hall.  Prep’d for rough draft workshop but the stomach ache I had last night/early morning, that nearly made me sick still shimmies a bit.  If after the second Mendo section I feel like this, I’ll leave straight for home, rest, and the run from last night also influences my standing today.  Hate feeling like this when I have to work with students– when I’m fiery and lively, I’m me, the sturdiest of me’s.  But now, I’m only half-character and I hate it.

whoso issue due in ten days.  So I need to edit.  Wanted a picture or some kind of image on the cover but it’s just “not in the budget” as they say.

Feel not me, and I hate it.  But I have to gather Self for students..  8:52, so I have a little time to meditate.  Not in the mood to write, either–  I should just go home now, rest, re-collect, maybe even take tomorrow.  If I leave here, Mendo, I won’t get paid as there’s no sick time accrued.  But there is at SRJC and the winery, so something to think about.  Again, if this feeling remains.  Hemingway would power through it.. I know I know.  But I’m not him.  I’m a different Literary shape, and speaking of.. what sources can I offer on Hem?  Didn’t have time to look last night with the Giant’s game and the Syrah I chose to sip.

12:56PM.  Out of classes, just finished meeting with student.  Now to SRJC.–  And a student stops by to see me.  Tired, even though I feel much better than I did this morning.  Definitely need coffee.  Not going to this oncampus café.  Too crowded and I don’t want all those voices around me.  Okay, I’m telling myself… two more draft workshops then I can rest, be home, sleep.. and I yawn as I type this, ready for some home, some motionlessness, just actual REST.

1:08.  How did time pass that fast?  Don’t want to write anymore.. leaving… thinking of Hemingway and him saying all around him was his.  At this point in my life I can only think as he does, my own lit mag started and a self-published novel right behind the inaugural issue.  Collecting the 500-word pieces for a possible other book (didn’t write one yesterday unfortunately but I will later, or try depending on how I feel or if I wake up or not..).  I can’t “fail” as a writer.  I just won’t allow it.  This is how I will make my tender eventually and the only way.  That crazy wedding planner that I blogged for years ago told me: “You need to focus on what it is you want to really do.” Or something like that.  Either way it stuck, loony as she was.  But I am Hemingway, Hemingway-ian, or -esque, and I will impose my writing presence wherever I am, and now on page and not just a bloody blog.

5PM.  Library, third floor, in corner with most beneficial view I’ve ever had in a sitting here.  Hear female students laughing somewhere to right, in the stacks.  The novel is done, I have written the last “new word” in it, just a couple minutes ago.  So if I add anything else it’ll be an older writing and the character will have it as something he stumbled across, upon, ran into or whatever.  Still need to do a 500-word piece for today, but I’m tiring.  I’ll write one tomorrow morning, early like Hemingway.  In fact, I’ll only write in 500-word standalone bursts tomorrow.  I should easily have three.  Right now I just need to meditate in this seat with the view across the street, at the Emeritus quad.  Ran into a student from Spring ’14, he was in the café where I bought this Dr. Pepper and he was reading War and Peace, which surprised me as he wasn’t the strongest student in that class, always sitting in the back and rarely volunteering a thought.

Can’t wait for the next class to be done.  I’m tired.  Feeling much better, yes, but tired.  I may go right–

Had to move.  Students of course chose to sit right behind me.  Now I’m on the third floor.  No view.  Only of books.  Which is fine.  The books I can see are on paintings, the Vatican, Art theory.. let’s see….. the “power of art”.. this can’t be coincidence.  In one of the sources I found on Hemingway, it stated he viewed his art, writing, as more of a job than anything.  And I now, only now at 35, am seeing the dire nature to what I want to do for a living.  So I need to write a 500-word piece now, now– NOW!

Now in Emeritus.  Somehow, some twinge of misluck, a former employee of the winery, Alec, stumbled into my safe quiet zone.  I won’t hide my annoyance on this page.  I was already forced to move now I’m made to be here in the conference room, but I suppose this is only a boon, as no students will be scouring these halls, and if they are it won’t be for me.

With the novel done, I’ll wait to start another.  I need to edit, I know, and I’ll start tonight, one page at a time and minimally!  I don’t want this to be antichaos I want it to be BEAT, and Cubist, and JAZZ.  Musical if you have my intention understood.  The exhaustion compiled in this day is now becoming visible, I can see it.  This last class, the 6PM, has to be casual, conversational.  The 3PM took a lot from me even though I was sipping the Sumatra blend– hot in its nightish movement and casings.  I’m starting to taste whatever I’ll eat when home and feel the comfort of those sheets, and imagine the next day as I fall asleep.

Just looked at the first page of the novel.  Not bad.  Definitely me, rushed and frantic and obsessed with coffee, but how can I write otherwise, you know?

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My night’s cap, ’11 Syrah.  Not in anyway conforming to the stereotypes and misnomers of the 2011 voice collective.  I’m connecting to this wine and hearing its intent.  Looking through past blog posts that were altogether centered on wine, and with a palpable forward in a pursuit of wine, consumption and production– giving wine a last chance.  Was going to write “second chance”, but this is more of a final attempt to make wine my own.  So where else does the writer start?  Well, drinking it of course.  But I sip slow as tomorrow’s my long day.  Drive to Mendo, then back to SR.  FOUR rough draft workshops and a Hemingway introduction.  Already have the quote decided that I’ll use to introduce one of my most followed fiction authors.  He won the Pulitzer and the Nobel– truly dedicated his Life to fiction.  Fiction.. fiction.. the story, and they’re everywhere, I was thinking tonight watching the first game of the World Series, Giants winning, I think 7-1.

Alice with a cold, my poor sweet…  Me coming back from my 7.01 mile run and hearing her sniffle, sneeze, seeing her lowered eyelids, I can tell she’s in discomfort, and it bothers me just as intensely as when little Kerouac ails.  Still have some of that Syrah in the kitchen, should sip soon.  Saw Sam doing a punchdown of some CF in the tank room, guess it was skins that were going to be disposed and he, Sam, halted the removal, decided to use it himself.. the color was intense as was the invisible thrust to the nose.  Have to make wine again, I told myself.. next vintage, for sure, ’15 will be mine, in so many wined ways.  Ordered some wine today in addition to my wine club shipment from AV winery.  Not much just a couple extra bottles, the cuvée that Alice likes, some SB that I and Mom & Dad love, well as some ’08 Cabs that are mindblowing.  Making wine everything right now, yes now I need a sip to get further into this character, and I drink not to feel intoxication but to prompt and provoke sentences and visions and dreams, further the wishlist.

Lots of grip and ricochet on taste sensory; cherry, cinnamon and a little green but not much; none of that expected gamey Syrah song, not here with this ’11.  Mom and Dad scheduled to come over Saturday night for pizza.. will open something dastardly delightful for them, like one of the 08’s, or maybe that Hamel Red that Alex and India gave me– either way something strong, something artful and a bottle that rallies writing.

9:56.  Should be in bed soon.  Not editing cuz I don’t have the time and I still have one more sip there in the kitchen.  Everyone’s going after the 12’s.. I’m beginning a quest to pin some expository and resplendent 11’s!  How’s that, wine critics and bullshit bloggers!?  Feel like a wine monster, wanting to examine every character that me crosses– but oh!  I need change the character, of ME, as races approach, so I can’t sip too much.  If I want to do that ‘full’ in Santa Cruz, it’s less that 7 months away.  And I should, to show everyone and mySelf that I can.

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In the library and you can definitely feel the semester intensifying.  I’m out in the open like an African deer or varmint and I could be attack at any minute by some student dissatisfied with their paper grade.  But what can I do?  I’m doing my job.  And the point of school IS to be tested and explore what you can do, what you need to improve, true?  Students all around me at tables like this one, meant for 4 people to study or exchange ideas, write or gossip and do nothing productive– I only say that as I’ve seen and unfortunately heard it too many times.  I had this planned, this sitting, what I should accomplish and walk away with.  I revisit Emerson, his writings, his essay “Self-Reliance”.  And I do, I hope, have that “latent conviction”.  That “universal sense”.  In Hemingway’s work, notably his book ‘A Moveable Feast’, a reader can only notice these principles and mandates.  Everyone calls his style, Hemingway’s, curt and abrupt and harsh and “declarative”.  More so I offer is its transcendent observational qualities and staunch defiance and self-reliance.  That’s what observations is: a trusting of your senses as that’s all you as a writer utilize to compile your manuscripts.

Think I need some coffee.  That mocha I bought earlier at the cafeteria café or whatever it’s called was horrible.  I need energy and I think I may need a break from writing.  Well wait– the novel…  THE NOVEL!

On page 302.  I shiver thinking I’ll end my book at some point.  But I have to!  It’s due today, the rough rough rough draft.  308 pages…  ALL.  MINE!  You should see me now: notebook– or Comp Book rather– out, bag on table, laptop out.  I’m a student.  Of mySelf.  Self-Reliant in my convictions and Zen sitting and affirmation.  So many others more fired than me, walking around, hunting down sources, and books and references for themselves.. what am I doing but writing, that’s it.  I’m not learning anything new.  Need to find a book, or an article, think I still have money on my copycard.  Laptop’s going to die.  Just in time.. off I go, to study, to learn, to grow and self-profess, obsess.

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2,395 words so far today written.  Wrote Dav, wrote my daily 500-word standalone.. feeling like a professional writer, whatever that means– well, one that can actually live from their craft.  Hungry, will eat the PBJ I made for myself this morning.  And when at SRJC, another black coffee– no mocha.. save for publishing and Jackie’s college and vacation with Alice and our next dinner date.

Two more quick meetings when in SR.  Want the students to arrive next meeting with strong drafts for this Wolff paper.  I’m hoping they surprise themselves and me as well.  I’m trying to hold onto faith in the American Scholar, but it’s been hard this semester.

1:10, time to go.  Can’t wait for my Road snacks, and the jazz, and the additional writing I’ll have done on campus, at my base campus, the mainland!  Joy!  Missing my little boy, though.. trying to work and write and drive through it.

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I’m standing and writing. Not sure this is my form. Bored and motivated– which gall most me suits? Regrets won’t work and why am I addressing them? I’ve thrown mine away. So the next book is supposed to be what? Obviated writer thinkings.

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Just woke.  Short bathroom break and now writing.  Again, I feel safer writing here than in the magazine, or starting some new book– not yet, not time.. yet.  Going in late for club event, home a little late then half marathon tomorrow.  Landed fall classes for SRJC: English 1A in morning, early (7AM), than a 1B in Petaluma, I think 12-1:30.  Then done.  No Mendo.  I mean, I could take classes there, but they haven’t offered me anything official yet, or what I deem official– only ones tentative with the observation contingency, which we haven’t debriefed yet.  They’re moving too slow in Ukiah, and even if they were more motivated, motioned, I wouldn’t take them.  I want more time to write and more time with little Kerouac, who was again coughing last night, my poor little Artist.  Tired from yesterday in the reserf room, and tonight’s event better not even be the least bit demanding, not stressing or straining me even a little.

Tempted to get a little more sleep, but I needed to write.. something.  Jackie’s up, going up to get him…

7:16AM.  First sip of coffee, poems I wrote yesterday, may blend them together, but not in the same order they were scribbled or typed on phone.  I’m not in any way about “order” these days.. just writing and releasing, the moment and the Newness, the knowledge that Emerson said I need to find, for myself, and the Equilibrium that Dad said one day I’d find.  And I think I have, or at least I can see it and I think about that watching little Jack play with his toys, with two batteries in and out of the airplane piggybank, he removed the front portion with the propeller, puts the batteries (AA) in, jiggles them then removes.  He has a system, a pattern, methodology to everything he does and I just sit here with candied envy.. and I’m not an agelast, I do giggle a bit but I also analyze, see how I can have some of what he exercises.

I’m basorexic with words this morning, language, spinning it however I want like a turtle in the pacific riding some unexpected or known current for amusement or transportation or both.  I’m just holding words then returning them to the world in a more libation-like layer.  Tomorrow’s run, visible.  I just have to start slow.  I can still feel the 7.2 run from Thursday.

$4200 in account, putting $150 on couch, then it’s paid.  That leaves $4050.  Put $200 on cc, 3850.  And there I’ll stop for now.  Want to put around $500 toward the house fund and maybe $250 or $275, maybe $280 to my publishing stash at Schwab.  And no new camera!  I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a new device for pictures.  Eventually, maybe, just not yet.  I’d rather write and at this point anything that intercedes with the pages is punishable obstruction as I see it.–  $280 to company.  and I stop.

Jackie plays with a couple pennies, nickels and dimes I gave him.  “Dada, that’s my money, I pu’ i’ here!” he says, turning back around to focus on his arranging.  Feel like xenobombulating today, make up some excuse.  They have plenty of people, right?  In the speed-walking wine club member frenzy and dogma of entitlement and somehow warranted overconsumption.. I don’t want to hear their requests and hear how they’ve been club members for years, or a little over a year, or they just signed up and are already acting like they own the bloody winery.. I just don’t want to hear it.

More coffee.  I hate it when it approaches the Siberian stage of staleness and it loses its courage.  Excuse me…  Second cup cued.  Blankets on the floor just in front of a puddle of toys.  Very much looking forward to only teaching two classes next term.  And, I have to be honest, the drive is something I won’t at all miss.  At first it was exhilarating being a freeway flying teacher again, but I’m calling it, it’s over, no more, more centralization and that pertains to vocation avocation and geography.  Flying for adjunct assignments is a young person’s pursuit, and I’m an aging writing stuck and even further harnessed to my ways, practices.  “Less is more,” a full-timer at Napa Valley College once said to me, addressing quality vs quantity with courseload.  Now I get it, now I see…

And the morning is much in motion with Alice up and out for a walk.  No running with her recently paining knee.  And laundry upstairs, groaning and circling and throwing water and soap all over its insides.  And Jack, jumping from snack to snack, seemingly never full and never bored and never, never exhausted with his surrounding.  Never with mulligrubs.  How does he do that?  He’s luminous always, even when he wakes in the middle of the night like last night, he had a question: “Where mama go?”

He rises from his recent snack and goes to the table where his cars and trucks and trains and one plane situate.  The winery on thoughts, the vent, but I won’t let it stay long.  I’m like a photographer walking around looking for the perfect shot, like that guy yesterday that I saw roaming around the Syrah hill with his camera and stand, standing with folded arms deciding when to push his button.

Hoping to get a haircut today, not that you needed to know that but I’m looking for anything to note at this point, anything.. I’m running out of fuel, ideas, thinking of the past; Arundel, my grammar school and Serra, the high school– seems like two lives ago.  And how?  My goal for tomorrow, on running’s note, is to feel better than I did on the last ‘half’ at mile 10.  Mile 10 is where everything started to wear, pain, pulsate about me.  But not tomorrow.  [8:18AM]

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journal excerpts–

The weather, hot.  This has to be Summer’s last song, I guess– in technical coding, it’s Fall.  But it’s very much a summer song outside.. no clouds, sun, heat, and the air that warms you even if you’re in the shade and want to be left alone.  I could use more coffee, as you probably already guess.  The drive this morning, long and tiring like it hasn’t ever been.  And of course on the day I’m observed, right?  I don’t see luck as anything real, just an excuse that certain characters utilize to generate.. something, not sure what, empathy and sympathy in and out of themselves.

SRJC next.  I need to get to the library, write and research teaching and those models and modes I mentioned.  I think I’ll start them off with a freewrite prompt.  What?  Don’t know, need to find one.  I want them, the students, or I hope they go outside themselves with thinking and the assignments and what they write, ALWAYS–

Done checking campus emails.  OF course nothing that immediately if at all concerns me.  That happens as a teacher, you’ll see…  I’ll have my sparkling water on the way back to SoCo, and think of new directions for the 1A classes.. first, writing, then talking about the news and current events, connect to sympathy and empathy, the group them up explore the short stories more– but I want to do something else.. what…  WHAT?  Not enough time.  Already 1:03.  I’m relaxing, breathing like the article I read yesterday urged.  Yeah, I breathe, but not like this.. I need to do this more.  THIS.  Really breathing, and for me.

prompt for students, SRJC:  Something society needs to pay more attention to is… [make an argument for why we should care]

There.  That’s how I’ll start.  And I’ll pull up a couple news sources; CNN, CNBC, New York Times, BBC…  Still with the journalism bug, me, always.  I want to report, and I think that’s what much of teaching is; reporting, ideas and writing directions and “rules” I guess, but conveying something to the student, something they should value, and carry forward with them, or “walk away with” as I say.

1:08.  Leaving in 7.  Not enough time, like I wrote yesterday for whoso and the entirety of my writing Life.  No looking back, with anything.  I read the news and see all this despair and tragedy, death.  Life needs to be lived, not quarreled over or stressed within.  If I didn’t have these Mendo sections, I could be writing, or I would be right now.  There will be no more four course semesters, not as long as I’m on hwy 12.  Should leave.. I’ll finish this entry in Santa Rosa.  Stay ahead of Time and your schedule and your commitments and projects.  Then everything works and creates music.

4:53PM.  In library, more exposed than I’d like to be, at one of those four chair study tables in the middle of the floor.  I won’t listen to anything but I own wants.  People walk by, they could rad my novel I guess, or some small sliver of this journal, but I don’t care.  A student sits at the table, left, by self, opens a binder, breaths heavy as if he ran here, I’m sure he did– but I can’t pay attention to anything other than what I type and what I think and what I have to do to get on the university campus– and whoso will provide that bridge.  After posting to the blog I’ll contribute something, something, some thought or entertainment from day, like the drive and the low intensity to the Sonoma/Mendocino sun driving on 101’s northerness.  An older man at one of the computer terminals, right about fifteen yards.  Wonder what he’s looking up, or studying, or just casually looking into.  Two ladies, older, at the table at 11 o’clock, reviewing each other’s answers to something, I’m guessing some math assignment.  They speak fluent spanish and one tells the other that their assignment is ‘loco’.  I almost laugh, as I’m sure some of my students think I or some of my paper prompts or ideas are a bit crazy as well.

Haven’t touched the novel in days.  What’s wrong with me?  There…  Just opened both documents containing its pages.  Need to stand by my deadlines, finish ALL projects.. creep through my old writings and ones not so old 300 pages at a time– that will be my life strategy, my life’s work.

There…  I’m up to 194 pages of content in the novel, with recent Spring ’14 adds.  There there THERE!!!  I’m back in my novelist character!  This is addicting, these adds.. a novel, mine, my story as writer father teacher winery drone wine drinker runner and roamer– on page, for readers, or maybe just for me, and who cares if it’s just for me?  Isn’t that real writing?  Idea for vignette– for whoso.  I’ll keep it internal, save it for later, and if I remember it then it’s meant for page, right?  Thinking of the presence of death in Wolff’s stories, and in Kerouac, and how that makes their material so much more REACHING, generating more sympathy.  I can only find it interesting, I have to say, and beautiful, not the way Poe saw death as beautiful.. different than that.  Not sure how to phrase it or articulate it, but that’s something I could pitch to the 6PM-ers for a paper topic.

Already not in the mood for the winery tomorrow.  Not in the mood for the people and what they ask and how they sip the wine and how they over-over-over-think it– battery low, need a charge.. to the 4th floor.

4th.  With a view that I’ve never been graced with– the quad, the bookstore, the trees and students rushing to class, some skateboarding, walking, just wandering– envy the life.  Forgot cord in car, so this laptop will die.  Well there you go, death in this writing session.  10% left– posting…

Internet down.  Writing in Comp Book.

10/9–  Payday tomorrow.  Good.  Need to somehow find time to go to Schwab and move some money around, for house and company.  This morning’s session in the Kenwood lot will be for whoso– feeling slow this morning, and guilty as I haven’t run in a while, and I have the ‘half’ coming up, three days away.  At this time on Sunday, I’ll either already be there or be on my way to Healdsburg, to that starting point.  I’m just looking for finish in under 1:50:00.  I’m not even looking to beat my last ‘half’ time.  Not at all.  Want to have a nice run and enjoy my day off.  Right now little Jack is enraptured by his toys, arrangeing the smaller trucks in the bed or back-bin of the larger one.  “Dada, sit down!” he orders.  And I do, but I have to spackle this page, my pages my journal.  Need to do some word hunting, pack the thesaurus– have today be a day of words, empty the work bag of all those papers that were handed in yesterday, all the short reactions, and the students delaying or playing games with their instructor, like the one in the 930 section will only lose, to themselves, not to me– this semester has already tried me in like instances of students trying to skirt the system, trying to compile excuses into some impenetrable defense or rationale to where and which I have no explanation I have to either pass them or give them the grade they want.  No, sorry.  7:21– and I think about the day ahead, have to make it work for me, who am I with in the reserf room? Back from a sip of coffee Jackie says “Look a car, my Dada!” I walk to him, situate on one knee and once stationed, hug him tightly, let my little Artist know I’m not ignoring him, that I see him, that I see him playing and love what he’s doing.  Kiss on top of his soft knotty blonde head, back to keyboard.  Oh…  And to my delight, I’m not in the res room.  I’m at the bar, lovely.  But no tasting today, even if Blair asks me to the bbls.  And if he does, I’ll only smell the petite Sirah, that’s it.  The wines are developing rapidly and I don’t want to miss any of the transfers or “rackings” as they call them, from tank to bbl or bbl to bbl.  Now 7:28, need another sip of coffee, trying to be as axial as I can in my plan, this morning’s scribed map.  The novel, another racking at some point today.  MY friend has the day off so I won’t be distracted to lunch or some other type diversion on my lunch “break”.  I’ll go to the Warm Springs park and write, work on the novel as I haven’t touched it in a while– that’s not true, I racked about 10 pgs yesterday.  “Dada, wha’ doing?” he now asks, little Kerouac.  I stop, will make a recrudescence in about 5 hours.  For the novel, magazine touched in Kenwood lot.  And poems and words an odd phrases through out the day, glacial pats and Yukon-like contemplativeness–

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10/1/14 journal excerpt…

5:07, in my little conference room in the library.  Doing the back-and-forth between research and writing.. Teaching on my mind, different approaches and rubric study, evaluating the student’s writing.  Sipping a sparkling lime water from the bookstore.  Not in the mood for caffeine.  And tonight, no wine, only water.  Need to wake early tomorrow– I know every time I say I’m going to do that I don’t, letting myself fall back onto that pillow, but tomorrow will be different, I promise.  I’ll wake at ‘Cathy hour’, around 4:30AM, and I’ll just leap into the journal, maybe scribble some verse in the dark, or semi-dark as I’ll have to turn on that lamp on the red end-table, the one upon which Jackie alway situates his car and trucks.  Either way I’ll be writing, I swear.. maybe I should get one or two of those iced coffees from the store before going home, so I can just pop one in the early hour rather than wake Alice and Jack with the coffee brewer.

Just made a couple additions to the novel from Spring 2014.  This is getting complicated and stressful.  I should be writing novels in one continuous effort.  Not all this cutting and pasting and rearranging.  This doesn’t feel natural.  That’s why I like the idea of writing a novel on a legal pad, or typing from beginning to end in a word doc– what kind of example am I setting for my students in composing a novel this way?  I’m learning from it, though, and I think I’m just going to resort to the ‘to hell with it’ attitude.  Just quickly arrange and loosely edit then release.  I need a novel out there, now, now.. bloody NOW!

Just added more from Spring to novel, and I see a pattern in my character, in my writing and addresses, and I think I’m pleased with it.  Just hope a reader is–  NEW DEADLINES:

novel draft:  10/8/14

whoso issue:  10/15/14

And these are serious, final and official.  I need material out there, I need to sell pages and I need to change my character habits, for the running too.  Wake earlier to run, for weekends that is, and test yourself [me speaking to me, here] with how you dive into standalone projects, and runs.  Every run is a standalone piece and– been over this before.  Think I DO want another cup of coffee.  I’ll get it right before class, hope that gets me through the session, and it will I know.  Just found a rubric online that cites or emphasizes “Style/Expression”.  Interesting.  I like how the two are conjoined rather than quarantined as separate ideas and evaluative modes.  Looking for high school English teaching philosophies, and then the internet goes does.  “Goddamnit!” I almost scream.  Need to go to SSU at some point and roam around their library for education sources, philosophy books, sources and resources.  This is my new mode in teaching, and I need to list EVERYTHING I find that can help: contacts, books, writing prompts, texts.. EVERYTHING!  “Investigating the world as it unfolds,” this blog mentions (yes, the internet is finally working), interests me– reactions, the news, staying aware– the ideas attack me right before class.. excellent…..

Wouldn’t say I didn’t care when I first started teaching, I just didn’t put the time into my practice that I do now.  And it’s shown me a lot about my Self as well as the elemental and intrinsic Art of teaching.  I’ve never felt this mentally alive before.

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