Posts Tagged With: Philosophy

Time to leave

for Petaluma Campus. Another quick meeting of prompting students to write their stories (3 pages typed by next meeting, Tuesday), and collecting the ‘Hem papers’. Then, run when home. Need more coffee although right now I’m quite happy and functional. But could use a break from the key and from thinking too harshly as I have been since I sat here in the Emeritus conference room or whatever, since 8AM, about. Class doesn’t start for another over-2.5 hours, so I have time to think and collect and think about my ‘Wellness’. My new friend Phoebe’s topic and consistency and encompassing fervor with health has me thinking about my Life, and how Jack’s father needs to be as healthy as he can.. to be around and involved in everything. Tomorrow night, I’m thinking, for dinner I’ll make healthy quesadillas at home– onions, carrots, mushrooms inside.. and don’t sauté the ‘shrooms, not at all, just cook them and have them soak what they can from the cheese and be shriveled and soft as you like. Find some healthier chips to have on side; unsalted and, if you can, gluten-free.. Think I see a new Me approaching.. thanks my new friend, Phoebe…..

In the shared or “open” office, Petaluma. Went outside of character andIMG_5174 habit, any pattern, when I took the East Washington exit to downtown, left on the Blvd, then to Kentucky. I parked and went to the SBUX around the block (on Blvd), then went to the riverfront where I injected a couple more little pages of notes for Krystal, my character.. and new focus (Massamen novel on hold, indefinitely). No, it won’t be narrative, my story for her, but in present tense and from a 3rd person chant that conveys intimacy more so than obvious trite voice-over information.
Coffee done, now, and I count down till class.. no prep needed for 1B. IMG_5175Just going to tell them to write, hand in their papers and enjoy the weather.. find whatever push or ‘inspiration’ they need. Gorgeous outside.. in fact, it became too hot in the sun by the river, on that first bench, forcing me to move to another by the Blvd, completely sheltered by calm Petaluma-old-building/historic-edifice shade. Been some time, years I’m sure, since I walked around down there, with those buildings above me and the river and those bridges, the retired tracks–
Took only a couple pictures while there. Now I revisit a poem I wrote yesterday in the TR and forgot about, nearly, till I came across it just now about to upload the stills I shot by the river. And the day’s only starting.. 10:47AM. I have to run when back home, have to! Just five miles, then stop. No 6.2! Don’t even think about it, I tell myself. I look at my backpack, how heavy it gets when papers are submitted– the Krystal novel.. how to proceed with it.. just little blurbs at a time.. take inventory tomorrow night, on retreat.. don’t get distracted. And there they are, the Self-reminders from the grumbling writer. My Beat disrupted and renewed how can that be I have no idea this must be the caffeine speaking, so I finally take a minute to breathe…
Can’t wait to cook for myself tomorrow night, and open some new wine, meet some new character.. Syrah, have to find a Syrah.. go to Whole Foods on block, or down Yulupa rather, and be selective. Don’t set a budget.. in fact, aim high with price, treat yourself. Yes, this must be the caffeine talking.

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After wine and meditation,

I’m ready for morrow. Books on table, bag packed and seeing only fruition for classes.. I’ll have to do a little planning in morning, but only a little.. revisiting Poe’s Philosophy of Composition, some of his ideas. And I’ll refer students to the idea of Composition, something being ‘composed’, showing and exhibiting and demonstrating ‘composure’.. defining both. Honestly, as I sit here in the nook, looking at the flowers Jen sent Alice a week or so ago, I hope I wake early; I hope and I can’t sleep; I hope this excitement for tomorrow’s classes stays with me and haunts me– I’ll address every student in each class at least once; students that escape my calls and don’t offer their hand or ideas will be summoned for voice.
I’ll run tomorrow, but only 5 miles, the Big Daddy run around the BV neighborhood. And that’s it. No 6.2 that I usually do!– Just found a line in Poe’s ‘Composition’ that’s just what I need for tomorrow’s momentum. Oh I can’t wait! Don’t let me sleep, Craft. Keep me up. Let me be tormented by the ideas.

Add words to tomorrow’s lecture: 1, “design”; 2, “excite”; 3, “sitting”.. as in “the limits of a single sitting”… 5 minutes, 9 hours till show. I’m ready! Ideas, thoughts.. know who I’m calling on first already, to show her/him that they need to be heard; their voice matters, otherwise they’re just dreaming, and muted!

Almost 10, and I think of the coffee.. the parking lot at SRJC, right where I park by that light and walk up the slight ramp then up the stairs then opening the door with my key (one of the few privileges I have as an adjunct instructor), then sitting in the adjunct office to write, prepare, sip my large medium roast chalice. I’ll be a different adjunct– this is where IT, the truest ‘IT’, starts. (3/23/15)

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Not sure what Jackie’s deal is,

but he’s defiant and restless, just doing what I tell him not to; throwing to jumping on the couch to.. everything.. throwing the little basketball or football in the house to stuffing too many animal crackers in his mouth. Part of me wants to applaud him and the other scold. I don’t scold, or at least I haven’t yet. Yes I say “Don’t do that!” or “Do you want a timeout?” But he just does it anyway. I don’t want to be harsh and I don’t think I could even if I had that compulsion–
Back up all these writings. Tonight! And keep going.. don’t think.. there’s no thinking in jazz. Well there is it’s just in the moment. And conventional approaches to anything has to be shunned, certainly with writing. He keeps playing with his toys and just does whatever his curiosity tells him to. So much scattered on the ground, and I wouldn’t call it clutter but his things, his ideas, his questions of how to arrange things, these things, and if he puts this set of items over there to look like this how will it truly look? Know that’s what he’s thinking, or something to that shape.
Writing a story tonight. To one of those Nat Geo pictures, whatever one they have on their website.. more stories and more narrative and more curiosity and more motion! Speed! Jazz! In everything I do even if it doesn’t make sense in fact if it doesn’t then I know I’m onto something, something lovely! Something worth reading!
More and more ideas for tomorrow’s classes. Not sure I’ll have time to fit all this in. I’ll do my best. That’s all I can do. Think I’ll think about it tonight over some Sauvignon Blanc..

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Done with rough draft of Tuesday lecture. But I couldn’t fit in an address, or redress, of Kerouac’s prose rules. No matter.. I’ll save that for Thursday’s. 7:18, not sure I’m running this morning. I’ll go after work then, if I can’t go this morning. And with tonight’s run, on the belt, I’ll fit what I can in an hour, not going over as I did last workout (Wednesday?). At winery today, where I’m thinking of starting a little podcast, not sure if that’s what it’d be called, about wine and the estate and the RRV AVA, and whatever else I can think of, wine-related– Having trouble thinking of something to put on paper, something to convey, something with a moral or even worthy of readership..Kurt V!!!
IDEA!! Post draft of lecture to blog, then print final draft and bring to class! Have quotes on narrative or writing, or creativity … Time everything out! Have that on printed sheet… Consult Kerouac’s rules and a book of Lit terms and theory.. or something on narrative theory, just to share, not to take away from the freedom or fun in writing the narrative– oh yeah, and freedom! There must be some address, theme, sub-theme or subtext of ‘freedom’ somewhere in the text. That’s part of the exercise itself.. have that on your mind while writing…
Just copied and pasted some of the above, so I wouldn’t forget. Need a new laptop, so I don’t lose these writings, I don’t trust this thing. So why do I continue to use it? I swear I could strangle myself sometimes.. the inconsistencies, the writer-whining, the self-doubt.. it’s not in anyway appealing! And not what I want for my students, from their instructor of record..
Haiku all day, and all instructional or encouraging, in some light, or some theatrical nature.. pushing students, or just readers to act, to create.. make ART! That’s where the freedom is!

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Oh, and…..

8:56AM– students should be arriving soon. After our talk I’ll fly across the street to meet the Skyhawk publisher. Then, possibly, up to RRV, just to check out grounds, see different stages scattered and if it prompts writing, just to see, no tasting planned. Other than that, I’m keeping the day open. Maybe something will hop into my scope and envisioning that I didn’t last night conjur– oh! The Anne Sexton collection.. need to get that– but I shouldn’t, I know.. have to save, the new house purchase just ahead of me and my character needs to be further hastened to discipline and frugal reaches.. my last day of this “break”, and I know I can’t plan anything, I can’t make a list of things or anything’s ‘to-do’. I should be keeping a list of everything I GET done rather than what I hope to have done. Make sense? Entirely, at least to me–
My chapter compounds sitting here, at this 12 & Mission spot with my laptop open and waiting for students.. I don’t watch my types, I don’t stare at the scree, I just write, madly, hope that something amazing happens today, something with the writing and the story..

And back home, I feel the anxiety pulsate and plume from me, what should I do what should I do? Didn’t I just tell one of them (that I just met with) not to overthink? Ugh.. now frustration to garnish the anxiety.. great. Not driving to RRV.. if this is my last day off, I’ll spend it sequestered, writing, reading.. no wine, no driving, no SPENDING.. just coffee and composition. 11:13 and I’m already tempted to nap. Absolutely NOT, writer! Writer’s don’t nap! The awake stay, wait for the pushing pagination play.. upstairs for this session, no couch.. in Dad’s old chair with my books around me, and minimal tech interaction. What should my other reading projects be? So far: ‘Vanity/Duluoz’, Emerson’s works, a redress of ‘Road’.. maybe Poe’s works? The text I used in Fall ’13? Done.. just one more, and I’ll take my time in selection.
Bright outside, inviting nearly demanding I run. But I won’t.. again aiming for the madness I acquired two days ago, buried in books and no concern for work or money or bills. Just material. Ms. Plath, right.. AH! Her entries.. read cover to cover (cliché, yes, but also as many say, which I guess makes it cliché, but readers the point very much get!). Stacked atop Emerson. Sink these teeth into day, like it’s a peach, or pair– then fiddle with it and its times, like saxophone notes, like I can still play– Up, glowing and aqua, so what do I do with it? Just stare? Write? Write about how it’s so nice out there while I’m the writer bunkered in here? Maybe I should go for a walk or maybe a drive and write remotely? But with INK! Actually write! It could be my ‘Al Aaraaf’! This whole day could.. all the characters I observe like their own stars and just appreciate their orbit, their conversations while they eat or drink coffee, or just pass by, in Springish saunter, indifferently meditative.. I’m jealous, or I will be. My incipit, shedding its quivering curves and now starting to find rhythm– so I need jazz and more coffee and more intimacy with what I’m feeling, and that is… career! Work! Making all this my own. It’s true, no one nor a single or collective entity can provide the career I want, or more so that I vibrantly deserve! Only I can and it will cartwheel from these words and teachings! And if I do start teaching high school English, we will find gems in the fundamentals, no matter how “boring” some students find it! There is application! There is freedom! There is LIFE! I will show them, my prospective teenage students, such, and allow them to make a text their own and find meanings, meanings they value and see as applicable to society! I will find a way, no matter how strict the curriculum is..
Amain with ideas this morning, and transcending into afternoon. I feel threatened by nothing. Only freedom. I know what my career and path and profession is– words, teaching, sharing of ideas.. and I see my doctoral work, the eventual, being in education if anything, not any Literary period or author set. The concept and principle of education, being educated and educating one’s Self! And the ideas continue to accost me pleasantly.. this is unfettered fervor that is NOT to be questioned or undermined, or forsaken. Not sure why I’m getting so dramatic, but…
Going to SSU, walk around, visit the credential department, ask a couple questions, and just be on a campus.. need that.. need to not be locked indoors, the Story tells me. Hungry.. may get lunch at Redwood. MAY, operative word. And go to B&N, look at books on teaching and education and Sexton.. need to pick that up!


View from Stevenson Hall, 3rd Floor.

Stopped at SSU to find that Fall 2015 is closed. Left a message for Dept Chair to see if there’s any chance.. we’ll see. Again I return to Dad’s question of ‘in a perfect world’. I’d write, obviously. And I am. And then what? I need money to result. And I’m not in the mood to write, now. Not sure what I’m in the mood to do. Don’t want coffee.. don’t want an afternoon beer as I thought of, that’d only slow me and I can’t afford to move slow. Should I just dive headfirst into coffee again? Se what bizarre things I write and what ideas precipitate from there? At a loss.. a nap sounds delicious at the moment.. ugh..the indecisive vice around my thinking’s aggravating but curious at the same time. But what is it teaching me?
And my laptop won’t let me followup with an email to her. Sign? Don’t know, but I’m getting frustrated with this goddamn laptop. And, as I’ve thought before: instead of wishing for what I don’t have and thinking about what I don’t have and how there’s something else I need to “advance” a career, why not work with what I already in my hands have? I have students.. I have a Master’s.. I have material and texts and pedagogical freedom… New ideas come now, and I think coffee may only distort them.. use only energy inherent, natural.

And I’m watching a documentary on a writer, a writer for TV. He was fired and now he’s on tour with his podcast.. should I start a podcast? I used to know how but now don’t. I don’t want to be on camera so it’d have to be vocal only, but that’d take away from the writing. Or maybe it’d be an additive to… Ideas ideas, the ambition’s my armament but also my achilles. And I don’t know if anyone would listen to my podcast.. I’m not funny like this guy.. I just write, I just journal.. I just live or evolve kind of by way of words and meshed expression.. faster faster, I tell myself. I’ll be on the Road at some point, soon, like this funny podcaster screenwriter personality network guy. If he can do it, I’m sure I can. I don’t need approval, I don’t need applications accepted. I only need me. As I’m the only one who can provide the career that’s pursued by me so ferociously. (3/19/15)

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stamp 2

Tempted to take a nap but I won’t let myself.. “But you need rest!” Huh?  What?  Says who?  I’m an adjunct, everything is against me, even the institution at which I teach and the system within which I do, so no sleep.  I sleep, they’ll attack while I’m at rest.  And this pugilist gets no rest!  The fight won’t let.  Maybe after this thousand words.  I need more poems, more prose pieces that I can perform– and more coffee, the coffee will keep me in study.. book next to me, the one I elected, ‘Vanity of Duluoz’.  No surprise.  Just called Arista and my checkbook IS in the drawer, the one where I place my keys. Relief, nice I think and how nice it is that I have this quiet, so why would I sleep?

People always ask me about the students I have, “can they read well?” or “how are they?” What do they want me to say, I wonder to myself, and is there a certain answer they’re looking for?  I remember that class my senior year, the Creative Writing class, Mr. Sullivan’s, where I knew, then there and in that seat, that I was to be a professor.  But here I am, one not full-time, and I’m not sure I want to be ‘FT’, or do I?  Or even: COULD I?  This isn’t any kind of depression or anxiety, worry, or stump.  Just thoughts.  And I deserve to have my thoughts.

Part of me wants to go for a walk, just a short one– and my internet cuts out, the jazz shut off.  “Goddamnit!” I think.  But I put myself in that position.  Why do I need the music.  Why not the quiet that I now have and I have to type these keys continuously for that, or some, comforting noise.  Need to print more.. this typing just to post to a blog is annoying me.  I’m annoying me.  This condo’s annoying me and the laundry room with all hobgoblins and oddies that pass through there, just staring at me, never saying hi, always looking so bitter.  Hopefully we move soon so my son doesn’t have to see that nonsense.

When do I read next?  Tuesday when back, yes, but also the next open mic, which I think is Thursday, Redwood Café.  Need to be out there more instead of just posting my pages and hoping I’m being seen ‘out there’, which is only a virtual ‘out there’.  Fucking tech.. like a drug that I hate to love to hate and only hate more the more I use it!  Circles and cycles and cyclones– ideas muted and awaybooted by each button I push.  So after this thousand I cut my connection and type only to print.  In high school, we had internet, but not so monstrously, it didn’t dominate us, it was there but we didn’t depend on it, it was more ‘if I want to use it then I will’.  Now.. we’re doomed, damned, against our own will jammed.  And I always say I’ll distance myself but I can’t, I have to blog, can’t afford to print, not now anyway.  I just need to moderate.. reserve the right to have my own private or “secret” pages as Kerouac advocates in his rules.

Oh but a nap sounds so good, great.. grand!  I need to collect and re-collect.. or I could go for that walk, observe, watch the cars speed down Yulupa faster than they should or go to the market and walk the isles, pretending I need something but leave with the fictitious warrant, “I forgot what I needed.” I’m indecisive, and this must be the madness I wished for.  But I can’t handle it, or maybe I can, maybe I need to slow down– or– what.  Slow, fast, speed determined by what it is in my head and what’s there is a library, mine, thoughts and ideas generated from past authors and this one if you’d be so kind.  The adjunct, adjunctification– a word that I permit, even if it’s just contrived and coaxed… so is our job security…

Thinking I need a shower and some time, think.. think.. my observation of people when you pass them in the market or at the mall (which I rarely anymore frequent, as my fear of crowds has only expanded as I’ve aged), or on campus, they’re disconnected, they’re drones, bots; self-involved and moved to a screen; greetings are no more.  Communication, just the casual ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ have dissipated.  Again, just an observation.  What the bigger statement is, anyone’s hypothesis.  But mine: we don’t need each other anymore.  The sense of community has been negated by the ever-presence of devices, and “social” medium.  The virtual.  Huh, funny I type this on my laptop, and after I just checked my email on my phone.. I know, I know…..

Wonder if there’s any baseball on.  It’s preseason now, and there has to be a game, somewhere.  My days in baseball, playing, long over, but I always remember those home runs I hit with Dad as witness.  I often think of that, and how I could have that same feeling, that same connection and glory and elevation again, with writing.. a bestseller, an acclaimed writing of some kind, lecturing at Stanford or anywhere, at any university on the Road.. I need a home run, a slew of them, an MVP season.. blend of Mantle and Ruth and Williams and Mays.. none of these modern sponsor whores.

11:13AM:  still morning, technically, and I’m in need of motion, action, reading.. and I think I will go out, but only briefly.  Mom ordered me to stay home and I hate to disobey–well, her and my wife, Ms. Alice–but I need stimuli.  So yes, I’m failing, or I will if I DO go out, at my intent of staying in here, to find that madness.  But that’s what the story is telling me to do.  So glad I didn’t lay my head down on this couch pillow.  So.. shower, coffee, drive…..

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2:21PM. Still sick, but

better after nap. Coffee.. trying to download this newsletter thing and of course it’s not cooperating. Says that I may have to pay? Yeah, then nogo, as my budget is in an envelope upstairs for my blog/startup/vision/dream/whatever/slef-publishing freedom whatever. Thinking about the last winery and how I’d be there normally now, and so glad I’m not– always with a knot in my stomach and always with nonsense, nonsense there following me. I’m here, at Arista (not now physically of course, but comfortable and in a breeze everconstant of Zen. Have the heater on a little as the adjunct experiences chills, not severe ones but just enough to notice I have them.. have to get ready, Alice and I to look at a house off Fulton.. see how it shines in the presence of the others over there. Alice loves the house but the garage style is something that I guess concerns me. We’ll see. Adjunct thinks about tomorrow, how there’s no class, but if he feels up to it, he’ll wake at the same time, write, grade, post to teaching blog.. maybe he shouldn’t do a newsletter for his creative writing or Life blog, or the teaching blog. That’s just one other thing to manage, right? He’d post a letter, no more than 500 words to both sites, both their own ‘management’ form. He looks back through his photos, the IMG_0855last winery.. should I take a shot at them? No.. please, he thought. “What would that do but just cause more trouble and if he were to cite them fictionally, then there would be not fallout or repercussions.. he’d be forever triumphant and blameless! Find picture.. my dear friend, my fellow Beat, Dav, when we’d all go across the street to the Kenwood for an afterword calmer. Dav and I haven’t exchanged our huge letters in some time. Now realize, coming across this old photo, my beloved friend, that those are the only letters I’ll write– Kerouac didn’t write bloody newsletters outside his projects, neither did Plath, Hem, Joyce.. none! That’s off my consciousness– I will market myIMG_5067 Self and my blogs and the writings in them by brickNmortar means. Watch, I’ll be victorious like no one else has with such pushes, efforts.. IMG_50692:36.. go.. will let you know what I think…. House was more agreeable than I ever thought to measure. Barely able to finish entry, though.. feeling the cold’s rebuild and re-assault. I’ll be in bed before 8, easily. Chicken noodle soup helped, but I still have those landmark aches, foggyhead associated with a cold, flu. Hope it’s not that. Goal: better for tomorrow’s RRV mission.

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Grading done.

On Spring Break, much a break as it is for the adjunct. And I have so much in rotation.. so take something out. Realized I can’t commit to 3 pages a day with Massamen Novel.. not till ‘Forced Avarice’ is done. ‘Quarry Swing‘ after that. Two books. Then, Massamen… I’ll read 10 pages a day, at least, so I’ll have it, ‘Avarice’, done in 30 days– well, a little more actually, but you see my point. And just contribute to this log, this diary of my adjunct’d days. Tomorrow in RRV, pouring, tasting, noting what I find in the Pinot characters. No wine tonight for me, gladly. Have to fit in a run tomorrow, and I mean HAVE TO.
Sleep soon. Praying I wake around 5 for a Hemingway session, look out at the dark just in front of me and only have this laptop’s light. Still with motion from the day’s lectures.. love the feeling that I connected with the students on some powerful level. Maybe it’s a bit of self-deception peppered with a couple blinks of reality, but I don’t know and I don’t care as I’ll take it; the day and the feeling and the looks they gave while I offered my words.

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3/10/15, a tuesday…

In office.  But first, restroom.. then coffee and planning.

Back, and already feeling magniloquent after the first sip from the large coffee I bought, this morning odd, thinking of all I thought yesterday at work, about wine, about teaching, about the PhD… yes, not sure I want to do that now, and it’s not a matter of me being finicky or flitty with my ambitions and ideas but I always come back to the question of ‘in a perfect world’ Dad posed that one dinner at Monti’s.. would I write or teach?  And if I went to get my PhD, even if for a personal goal, would I miss the time taken away that could have been used for a sitting, for writing, for finishing a novel?  Not sure but I am.  So today, all day singularizing, and going back to school would oppose and contradict everything involved in my singularity valueset.  Reading Kerouac’s ‘Spontaneous Prose’ commandments yesterday.. and they also added to this.. wouldn’t say confusion but certain reevaluation, doubletake.  Have to plan for class, but it can wait.  Writing out the 1A’s lecture plan, like it’s that simple–  Driving home yesterday I heard a piece on NPR about a teacher in Arkansas, I think, that was gaining national attention with her methods, shunning books (she’s a math teacher) and rather having hands-on activities, incorporating everything from spaghetti to manipulatives to other devices and real world incorporations; testimonies from students on how amazing her lessons are and how they used to hate math but now they enjoy it, and are developing strengths in mathematics where before they ailed and “failed”.. in fact, in her class, you can’t fail, you either get an ‘A’ or ‘B’, or something like ‘not ready’.  No ‘F’, or ‘D’.  Not even a ‘C’ direction or label, or result.  Have to say, I was charmed.  And I don’t mind being charmed or inspired by that.  The wine world, I love, but for writing.  There will be no career for me in the proper of the wine arena.  I will always write about it, but that’s it.  And making my own wine, if it’s Pinot this vintage or whatever, will ONLY be for a writing exercise, part of a book, novel or memoir, and nothing more.

6:15…  20 more minutes allowed to write which means I need to down this coffee and just think of what I want to do in class with the early 1A-ers.. well, first I want to write with them, explore the notion of work and duty and duty to one’s self and making yourself happy, otherwise why live.. that kind of idea play.  Then, listen to their proposals on Hemingway, what they want to write and why and what sources they have in mind (2 required for this paper).. easy instructions.. 5-6 pages/1250 words, draft by next Monday, works cited page with 2-3 outside sources.. again, easy.  Final draft due the 19th (which one student last class told me was during Spring Break, that all next week was Break.. to my knowledge that’s inaccurate, it’s the following.. I think…..).

Less than 15 minutes for my sitting here.  The day, all of it, ahead of me, like life; undetermined, open and inviting, certain seduction… to a degree insoluble, which I like.  Paint the canvas, I keep saying to myself and don’t let yourself stop typing, just keep in the moment and the types and imagine all, the vision you wrote about in Forced Avarice, which I still have not started editing, goddamnit.  Maybe today or who knows–  But I need to see something, something, what.. my desk.  MY office.  The place where all I do is write; no grading, no homework, no forms to fill out, just WRITE.  Aside from the obviously beamingly beautiful grounds of Arista, one thing I take to is the story, how the original owner, Ben and Mark’s father Al, changed careers, essentially, moved out here bought a vineyard and began a new chapter.. would love to interview him and his sons separately.  I’m in the presence of the kind and level of passion that motivates and changes my character for the better.  Not present at the last winery.  I should interview them, yes, post the interview to the blog, and study our conversation; my words and their words and their responses, see how I can transfuse that to my writing practices, the whole ‘go for it’ scope and trot.

6:29, missed the turnoff to campus, had to make a U-ie on Mendocino.  Not sure what I was thinking about, but I’ve never done that, ever, I just drove past the light like I was headed to Safeway, or Bicentenial, or Fountaingrove.  Interesting.  When back home, and I am going home between classes like I always do even though last night I had the idea of going straight to PC like I did that first week, but no, I need to go home, center myself, meditate on page and then drive to PC.  Not running today, I’ve decided.. will run.. well, not tomorrow I don’t think as I’m taking Ms. Alice to an appointment, but Thursday for sure.  I just want to enjoy my afternoon, write or take a nap or even get a beer somewhere and write about the patrons, collect fiction.. FICTION!  Or journal, blog from where I am, about the location and stage and all that’s happening around me!  That’s what writers do, don’t they?

Two minutes left in my sitting, a little over.  Approaching a thousand, “That was fast” I think to myself, but there’s still so much more writing to do today, about all details; keys, paper towel, all right, my coffee this comp book, the students I’ll see in a drop over 25 minutes.. do everything differently today.. writing, performance if they want.. keep them at their chair’s edge.. surprise them!  Music, film.. clips.. what else?

He walked to class.  Unsure.  Be he didn’t care.

It’d be different, his lesson.  He’d teach himself, he’d teach them how to teach themselves.  Smile, sip of coffee, and he was off…..  He’d welcome the unintended sentences.

Home.  9:22 on clock and coffee in brew.. coming straight home after class as we’ll be taking little Kerouac to the doctor later for his cough and little sniffles, poor little Beat…  Not a bad 1A session this morning.. wish I could have been a little more thorough with certain points but I did the best I could with what I had and how fast the coffee was working..

Shared Vonnegut’s “How to Write with Style” and Kerouac’s “Rules for Spontaneous Prose”.  The two perspectives, thinking I see something I didn’t before and in relation to the thoughts I had yesterday while at the winery, on winemaking and getting a PhD and ONLY writing for my living and wages.. hmm. interesting, that’s all I’ll here type.  Coffee ready and away I go…

Want to more embrace my secret pages and scribbles, ‘for my own joy’ as he put it.  And that’s what this black journal’s for, now, the one I meant for the Massamen novel.  Which I will write, but it’s on hold for.. I don’t know, a while.

At the table with my coffee.. and now what, I think.  What do I do what do I write and how do I use my time effectively.  Juvenile thoughts, in my opinion, but that’s what I’m thinking and that’s where I’m going with my thinking.  But, English 1B just around the  corner, in the hour more or less so I need get into character.  Foggy outside, so much so that I couldn’t see the driveway as I drove up from Yulupa & Bethards.  Not sure what kind of tone or mood or consistency the day wants to establish with me.  I’ll just run with the story, try to keep up with it, and go from there.  Thinking of time, and Jack’s appt, and how to budget with what I have time-wise if anything.. okay, 1:20-something, leave Petaluma Campus.. get home right at 2, latest.  Have lunch, get J by 3:20.. so not much time.  That’s fine.  I’m not complaining or worrisome I just want some line, some visual table in my brain.

Wrote a freewrite in class this morning with the 1A-ers, about “Work”.  Their only prompt, one word.. no visual, no other cues.. just a word.  Going to do the same with the 1B-ers and see what they produce, and add to my work piece as well.  Was interesting how they approached the topic; one addressing his military experience, the other saying how we all do it and have it, and the other student (young girl) posing questions.  Either way, I have to singularize my work; what I do, what I’m aiming for, and how to get there.  By writing.  And that’s it.  I may once, and forever, for all, and for me, swear off and bid goodbye to the PhD.

Categories: artist's notes ... | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

table marks

i dont know what they

are or what they say, i just

try to interpret

Categories: Haiku Falls, WHOSO MAGAZINE | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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