Posts Tagged With: wine

Keys Coffee Phone

All on the adjunct desk with me.  Woke this morning at 4:03 and couldn’t back into sleep slide.  So I’m here, presently 5:44AM and I only want to write.  Was thinking on the way over “What if I had more than just the two to teach today?” Would I be happier, or more content, or more fulfilled somehow with more teaching load?  Or is now the Time when I seriously decide and decree that I’m only going to write and blog for my checks, or what I put into my account; what I use to pay for Jackie’s school, the COBRA and the mortgage and my cell phone and gas and…..  I can’t now, but that’s where I’m headed.  That’s Wellness for me– to be completely Literarily free.  Have no idea what I’m doing with the 1A this morning, nor the 1B (but I can plan them when back home).  Walked up the stairs thinking about this adjunct life and where it can go and do I even want it to “go” anywhere?  Not so much, but I’ll use it, and I’d rather be in the classroom than anywhere in the wine world, having to pour full-time– and I’m not judging those doing so, I’ve done so.  If you remember the recent estate that after over 2.5 years or hard work and following orders and doing I don’t know how much social media nonsense for free, executed me as they thought I was unhappy, and my sales weren’t what they wanted them to be with their new budget and–  It doesn’t matter.  I’m living past those days but I always reflect on them and still find it hard to believe that I don’t have to go there anymore; I don’t have to sit through another of those nonsensical morning meetings where we go over so much that is repeated, condescending, and obvious.  A truly moronic wheel; the tasting room manager voicing elements I couldn’t care less about, the clownish and floppy wine club manager giving us information that’s about as valuable as spent tire treads, then the hospitality hippos spending the only breaths they can spend to tell us what’s on a schedule we could just as well look at, before they retire to their cozy overheated offices to zone through the internet till 5, or whenever they decide to leave.  So here I am in the adjunct office, planning, and thinking of the day and this coffee, I’m not looking at my phone, and the keys symbolize what I’ll again be doing; flying, freeway, from Santa Rosa to wherever.  Each campus is material and each is a story, and I find comfort knowing that I’m getting from it what I wish, using it for the writing.  I want to better know the pains of and adjunct, why they’re so angry, and why they don’t just leave ‘the profession’.

Uncle Ross, thoughts of his abominable ebbing, keeping from me the sleep I need.  I don’t mind, at all, I just think of him and Dad and the life I have to life, that I have to make for my son and I know that the wine world nor the adjunct world at least immediately will give it to me.  The adjunct life is breathing into me a newly electric Life– now I’m sensible and still quite pugilistic.  Looking at the clock and it’s still not 6.. 5:58, now ‘9’ precisely.  Adjunct.. adjunct…..  A fancy word for part-time, but I won’t get devoured by that, I won’t be one of the ever-grieving part-time instructors.  I’m fighting, I’m journaling, I’m writing, getting the story of what we do and what we do is expected; it’s dismissed as only part of the whole.  My Uncle Ross, starting his own plumbing/contracting business, never having to answer to a higher-up, never having to follow.. he set his own rules, provided for his family, was proud and with reason; I think of him and I think of strength, and I see what his children, my cousins Daniel and Matt, are saying and everything aligns with notions of strength, persistence, and love.  I have to keep moving, I can’t stop with the pages even for a minute, this all tells me, and like I noted yesterday in my notes for the Massamen novel, while at work at the beginning of day, behind counter, I need to build; I need to finish my construction project, the novel, and let it take me away from all this.  Krystal will be in the body of the work but not the focus, I can’t write about winemaking life truthfully and with stark believability like my sister could, but I can garnish the piece with what I know, and infuse Katie’s/Krystal’s character as a means of lamenting and documenting such admiration.

Think I heard the other adjunct enter the other shared office, just on the other side to this wall, left.  Why don’t the full-timers show at this hour?  Why are they lining up to teach 7AM 1A’s like us?  I was talking to another adjunct, the other day, a guy I work with at the winery, also Mike, instructing Math and Stats at Mendo.  He just landed a FT position at a JC in Butte County, but before revealing so he told me about how in meetings the full-timers would always joke about the adjuncts and their grievances and how ‘oh they’ll do it’, and never asked for their input on matters of curriculum, or rubric, or student attrition, or anything.  They, these adjuncts, weren’t in the room to the other ‘they’, those measling full-timers.

Put keys in backpack.  Don’t know, just didn’t want to look at them anymore.  Wrote some more notes for class.. have to update CV for Solano app, forgot to do that the other night, but I had too much wine anyway (night I visited Mom and Dad, the night I wrote soon as I got home, to more wine, but haven’t yet posted those words..).  Mom told me to “forget Mendocino”, and I think she’s right, but I need a story, and if ‘J’, my contact there, a more than empathetic FT-er to an adjunct, hasn’t told me what the story is yet for Summer, or Fall.  And maybe I should answer the email the SSU Dept Chair sent me, applying for their pool.. what could it hurt?  Walking around campus the other day made me think of a lot, roaming around that third floor of Stevenson, then back out to the parking lot, where I used to park when I lived in Colombard, Senior Year.  Wow.. that was ’00/’01.. the Time, nowhere to be found.  Just gone…  I’m seeing something in all this, the remembering and the walk through SSU, being here this morning, the importance of a morning, Uncle Ross, all of it.. Dad.. Mom.. the other night… the wine, me wanting to run today after 1B but more than likely I’ll take a nap but not if I have the momentum I do now…  ‘Forced Avarice’, still 360 pages to edit and that’s the only fucking thing from keeping me from releasing that book!  What, but what.. WHAT?  I’m not tired, I realize.  Not at all.  Not even a bit, a little bit, the littlest of little bitable bits.  No, I’m here and fiery and, as I earlier noted, pugilistic.  And what’s the story about?  That’s what I’ll ask the students this morning of their writing, the 3 pages typed they brought to share and lightly workshop, and just play with in class.

6:18, and I’m sure all adjuncts do this, too: count the minutes left to themselves before class, before they have to work and talk to students that aren’t at all interested, then some that are, but they feel guilty calling on the same bodies every session.  But what else are we to do?  Have to print a role sheet…  Have to find a word for the day, which I think I already have, maybe.. then a quote–  Lights turned off, not enough motion from the writer.  My types don’t count?  “Ugh,” I say with subversive audibility, then sip the coffee, look at phone but only for a sec.  Coffee sip again…..  Seeing more again.  But I have to hold for the time, just put, in place, me, though it’s hard.  Today could be that day I’ve been waiting for, that stupefyingly wondrous day I’ve been hoping for, since the days I was at ‘the box’, with that headset around my temples.  Life.. examined.. logged.. not sure I’m looking for answers.  Not sure what specifically I’m looking for.  I just write.  Maybe something’s looking for me.  Maybe ‘It’ finds me today.

Did my check get deposited, from the winery?  Afraid to look.  This writing has to pay, soon.. more classes, more material…..  Go DEEPER into the adjunct character.  Undercover.. spy.. journalist.. diarist.. novelist.. All.


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3/30/15 journal

Had to break from novel writing.  Already on page two of day’s 3 pages, or 3+pages.. mood low from the matter with Uncle Ross, and I can’t shed it, nearly tearing while dropping off little Kerouac at school, thinking to myself ‘What if something happened to me and he was left alone, and Alice was left alone?’ But then I toughened, hardened, that will nowhere me get.. so I sit on the couch, timing myself 55 minutes to write–now 52–and on with my day.  If today’s slow, then I’ll write the rest of the day’s requirement behind the counter, or at one of those chairs on the porch, hoping the mosquitos don’t completely chow on my shell.

And the mood remains, the pessimism, the observation of Time and Life and how both can deliver merciless manuscripts to us all and just move on, move on like we don’t matter.  The coffee’s not helping with my state so jazz then, the play the music the notes.. the lovely lawlessness of it all.

Researching the adjunct matter more, I realize I don’t want to be swallowed by it, that.. THEM!  Life is far too brief for that.. and do I want that to be my battle?  I’d rather wage war on publishers through my blogs and self– SELF-printings, than wait for some bloody measure to pass or some law to be approved, or some sort of recognition that finally shows and understands that we deserve more money.  And benefits.. yeah, almost forgot about that part of the picket.  NO,  I want Art.. I want LIFE.. family.. WELLNESS, as my new writer friend Phoebe addresses in her work.  Still haven’t heard from her and I don’t blame, no, she’s on assignment, doing what I hope to be– or rather, where I want to be in my writing and blogging career.. I’m writing, I’m always writing, but I want to be away from the adjunct noose and the having to have a part-time wine position.  And I LOVE Arista, like I never have a winery, not even St. Francis.. but I don’t want to have to be there, don’t want the obligation and the chain and the schedule– demand, be THERE or else!  No, not for the writer.  This morning.. and mornings are a major consistency in the Massamen novel.. I’m understanding the value of a morning; how it starts, sets tone (cliché I know), initiates and establishes tempo, to use jazz terminology; play with pace and tonality, chord combinations and whatever else I think of in the moment.  The schedule isn’t for me.  And the Adjunct War evolves, into a total attack on that reality I could select but choose to dismiss.  The more I read about them, adjuncts, the more pathetic it all is; why put yourself in that position?  And if you do, why not make it work for you?  I’m turning my back, on everything of that folding and I make it MINE.  I’ll keep my teaching blog very much alive as that will be my classroom and how I “educate”– or better, exchange ideas on everything from notions of the Road, to Kerouac himself, to Theory, to punctuational conventions and how there’s more Art in the shunning of and– just wait, just wait.

And now the coffee works, and works well.  Now, a sax, doing what it wants over the drums and piano (“Theme for Maxine”, Woody Shaw).  This is me, this jazz and the mood it creates– I deny death anything, any presence close to me.  Re-reading my drunken prose which I partially hate and a bit adore as it was honest and more music than most of my paragraphs of late.  I just love this morning now, and no that doesn’t indicate any manic mentality, or maybe it does, but either way it’s truth, THE truth about today and me as a writer and the life around me.  And notice.. no adjunct nonsense, none of it– the Adjunct War: how I fight is to not fight (Kerouac embrace of passive resistance), and yes I will win, technically, I can only, right?

Balance my character and prose and the novel will just happen, the Massamen story about not just adjunct nonsense, more, more than the expected and what’s always being written by adjuncts.  And it’s not me trying to find myself– I already know who and WHAT I am, simple, a writer.  And the coffee’s speaking to me with a volume that it sometimes does when it’s angry with me, my mood, but it won, I’ve changed in my scope and attitude this morning– and there, like that, I have a memory of the last winery, there full-time, more than merely miserable, always being barked at for something.  But no more of that either!  In my Wellness, there will be NO authority over me, EVER!  The key to being Beat is that you dance to your own, establish your own tempo and are sovereign in all thinking and action; and Create from that flight, that aloftness you capture.  And just now, nearly 36, I capture it, I have it and am playing with it.  That’s how I want Jack to see me, my little boy, as a father free from Authority and any devil wanting me to be content with impoverishing wage.  These adjuncts do it to themselves, partially.  I mean, why stand for that?  Well then you could say, they don’t, they assemble, they become active.  Okay, I respond, and how’s that going?  Get creative, I argue!  Scribe your own set of convictions!

Still over 20 minutes for my SELF.  This morning meditation.  LIFE, I say, LIFE.. ignore Death.  Laugh at it.  It takes people from us, but not the impression they left; not the love and closeness we felt.  Death is only part of the rotation, something plain and obligatory and one-dimensional.  I feel sorry for Death, frankly.  It’ll certainly never win against Artists like me.  Huh, now I run out of anything– words thoughts meditation and sight.

More to do.


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Loaded Act

All right with our world.  I’m writing and quite rested.  Jackie however coughed a bit last night as removed me from bed, attaching himself to mama bear…  Tonight, whence home from Mom and Dad’s I’ll devote the pressing of keys solely to the Krystal project.. and stay in the winemaking character, what they see what they want and how they battle with themselves and an employer should they make wine for some all-acted label.  I want to accentuate her muliebrity but as well her agile brilliance and interpretive qualities.  She’ll be my greatest character, and I’l narrate from the posture and politeness of her brother.. wanting the best for her and in my own story with my own struggles building, with an eventual everlasting ‘position’, or employment.

I texted Katie yesterday to run some ideas by her.. she’s on a trip to LA at the moment, but when she’s back I have to get this off my mind, I have to tell her what I’m thinking about how we can have a concerted trip with wine, and make a could bucks while doing so.

‘Cuvée Krystal’, a possible title, I guess.. but sounding a bit flailing, like I’m just trying to title it quick, or just inadequate.  It’ll be the working title, for now.  And I’ll publish every page to the blog– then when I’m done, it’s DONE!  I sometimes get confused on what Mike Madigan’s subject is, I mean that one dominant thread in my writings– is it the Adjunct War?  Is it wine (much as I hope it’s not)?  Is it writing itself?  Being a dad?  WHAT?  This book will answer everything– this is the project to end all projects.  And start new ones..

Didn’t taste a lot yesterday as I thought I’d run, but by the time I came home (I even changed at work to run around BV as soon as I parked here on Yulupa) I was in the kitchen to drop everything to floor and just jump from door, I was disinterested, tired, and a beer sounded better.  So.. character change.. run tomorrow, around 6!  At least 6.2 miles..  Want to do my 14 mile run this coming Wednesday.. taking off from the Howarth– or maybe just from home.  Yes, from home.  OH, and is that my topic, being a runner, or wanna-be runner of late.  I’m thinking about too much this morning, overthinking to the point of deaf-and-blindness.  Not useful.. on my immediate plate, Jackie, with his cartoons, toys, peaceful morning before the trek to Monterey with Ms. Alice, to see Grandma Cathy and Molly the pup, his great uncle Mike and his daughters.  More activity, more motion, more story for little Kerouac.

And me, here with the coffee already done, I find myself conflicted.  Do I stay up late tonight writing, organizing, or wake early tomorrow for run?  Can I have both?  Yes, but limit time tonight to about 12:30 or 1.  And if I launch at 7, or even eight, I can fit a nice run into the day, surely.

Today, March 28, 2015, and I feel like I’m a writer and nothing else.  When I think that I work at a winery and teach at the JC, I have a hard time believing, like I’m lying or I’m making it up or it’s a story or short story that I’m writing– that I’m finally consolidated, writing for a living.  About wine.. or parenting.. or running…..  OR whatever I want!  AH HAH, I think, there it is, I don’t have to have a dedicated device with the types, but some vision, or just let the story stampede as it wishes, which is more Artful if I further examine.  And wine, now, since the filming yesterday with my new friend Tome, and this story about my sister, and what she does and how much she travels, and the winemaker I met yesterday (only producing a couple hundred css per year, sharing a tasting room with two other such producers somewhere in Napa), I can only closer align my own story with wine and how it speaks, how people react.  In the tasting room I often imagine it’s my Room, and I’m pouring wines that I’ve made, watching how people react and monitor or keep track as best I can what they buy and the trend of preferences.

All right with this world, this paginated domain of my ideas and observations.  I’ll be bringing one of Arista’s Pinots to Mom and Dad’s tonight with pair with some pork roast dish, with sautéed mushrooms.  But which one?  I’ll taste through some and open a couple special, lower-pro’ bottles for guests and taste to see what tidal voices make themselves visible.  I want the wine I choose to bring to my parents’ house to have not only a unique twist or turn on Pinot, but on wine encompassingly, as a topic and idea and presence at a table.

The adjunct knows there’s classes ahead, well.. one, for Summer, but not Fall.  Signups aren’t until April 17.  Too far for him, his patience was wearing and eroding, and he would be 36 soon.  How long should he do this for?

I love teaching but the system, the game They have us play, the politics and amorality around campuses in this country, especially California morphs me mad (and not the positive enriching madness Kerouac spoke of).  In one of his entries he stated something like ‘I’m quitting school to write full-time’, something like that and that’s pretty much how I feel this morning looking at my son.. I don’t want him, this little Life that very much depends on me to have some part-time laborer, and underpaid one as an adjunct, for his father; his patriarch, his leader.  My dad, always was in control, with a steady position, one he controlled and at which he was exceptionally talented.  I have the latter, the “talent” if you will, but everything else is seismically unstable, a constant quake of professor.. I remember one semester that I told them I wasn’t going to book a class, as I was already signed up at another campus (think this was ’08 or ’09), and the then-dept admin said “Well, if you don’t book for too many semesters in a row, you’ll be taken off the list.” A threat.  FUCK YOU!  And, as it all tumbled, they actually didn’t have a section for me.  So I was to be shoved off the list.  What if I didn’t have these other campuses, I thought.  What if I really DID depend on SRJC’s sections?  And, I then thought, whatever year it was, “What if I had a family, a CHILD, to support?”

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the red elevation talk in

some language that’s not language not

linguistic not academic. we just inter

act. thankful.  a new site and

scope if I not try 

fall to here

and weightless in my walk,

again thanks, to the grape’s shape

and slate.


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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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the sip says more than

people– tells a more layered

picture, so why talk any

more– just sip at stare at the blocks

sing with trellis wires, notes, rings.



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Not as

much sleep as I would have like but there you go, and here I am in the adjunct office at 6:13, sitting for my sitting with coffee and yesterday, thinking of how resplendent it was around the property and how every color was accented in its own way. Not too busy so I did have a chance to react and write a bit, about the winemaking character, Krystal, and other notes of note– But now I prep for the day and the adjunct realizes there’s not that much to do..just some small prep for a writing prompt, the Creative Writing piece they’re to do by next Thursday, and hand in the Hemingway papers and then adjourn. I figure why not.. it’s the first week back from break and I hit them all pretty hard last class with information and prompts and directions, so today’s my treat. I’ll hang around for anyone that wants to meet and dissect the semester’s remainder or just talk about what’s ahead– oh! And the poetry reading/open mic at Redwood tonight.. almost forgot. Should I postpone or stay on path laid? Latter.. definitely latter.
Didn’t write a thing last night and I hate when I do that, just enjoy my night and not write, I always think of what I could have written and what would be on page but I can’t punish myself and I can’t think in past terms and tenses– just keep with the story, I tell myself, and I find now that more and more wine’s finding its way back into the constructs of my compositions. And the blog.. a blog.. bottledaux, with more wine fiction and pieces but then I think I don’t want it drowned or redundant.. just that my character involves wine, the story includes wine but does not in any way depend on it. In fact, many times I wish I could expel it altogether while still at the same time extolling it. Possible? I don’t know, but I’ll keep writing.
Set timer for 30 min, have 23-something left. So no real rush needed. Terribly quiet here in Emeritus, in this office, hear a hum above me. The lights. No heater on this A.M. And I don’t think it’s needed, and I’m glad it’s not on actually as there’s a chance I might fall asleep if it were with its usual hallow metallic hum. Coffee, I think.. more! Sip and force myself into some posture some readiness for day. Tomorrow night, night 1 of my newest writing retreat: dinner and wine and write about it into unfair hours, hours that are cruel on my consciousness and concentration. I’ll have coffee standing by. And a new restaurant.. to try.. maybe. But then part of me just wants to get snacks or something at the grocery, as there’s next to nothing in the house, no one’s fault. And maybe that’s what I need, some meal from a house I haven’t tried. Be a foodie for once, and “blog” about it. And have a nice bottle in cue (may have to get one as nothing at home is really what I’d call “new”). And the Newness is just what I call for, just what the pages demand as they always have.
When I left, Alice and Jack were still deep still into their respective sleeps. I didn’t watch them long or lightly rub Ms. Alice’s leg too forcefully as to not bother either, especially little Kerouac who had trouble last night with yet another cough. Must be allergies, I thought, as he didn’t have a fever or any other noticeable symptoms. I went back downstairs to attire then out the door, to coffee, back to car, listen to NPR, Farmers to 12 to 101 to College to Mendocino to right here where I sit, struggling to sit up straight. Tuesday, managed to run 7 miles on tread after the long day I had, waking at 4:58. Today, I’m thinking only a short run around BV, or maybe not if I’m to do the poetry gathering at Redwood– I’m a mess this morning, even with this coffee trying its damnedest to wake the writer. I wish I were in bed, still, still sleeping, still with the pillows convivially encircling my scalp. 14 minutes left in my timer, what to do what to write what to be this early morning. At least I made it to the keys. I HAVE A SOLUTION! I’ll have the open mic be virtual, on the teaching blog! Yes! I’ll compose a post right after 1A meeting and wait for the pieces to precipitate! That way I can get in my run so I don’t have to tomorrow night, I can just fly home from winery, or to the new restaurant I select, whichever it’ll be– Then the heater comes on, and I automatically think of sleep, what I’d be thinking of in sleep, the singularity and serenity to personal dormancy. Books.. characters.. wine… all tomorrow night. With some bottle, what, Cab? Pinot? Merlot (one of my 12’s that I made?)? All questions. And yes I’m very much overthinking, but that’s all I do and can do is be somewhat manic in this hour (6:32AM). Just writing that hurts, but I know what’s building my character and getting me closer to the Road, like the writer I met yesterday at winery on some writing retreat, sponsored by her publisher, I think, and or one of the wineries (Inman I believe). She told me her MS is due in November, as we sat and talked in the inlet, the table by the brook, surrounded by rocks. She too has a blog, more centered around recipes and food, but she told me her book is about the concept of wellness, and civilly beneficial balance with enjoyment, or “hedonism” as she put. Either way it was nice to have another writer with me on wine’s parcel and I could only think of what I should be doing to get on the Road, what shift in my character habit I can catalyze and forcefully initiate to get ‘There’ quicker. And I always come back to Newness, acting out of any pattern, and today’s prime in such exemplary envisage. Meet with students, talk briefly about writing their stories, again due week from aujourd’hui. Quelle merveille! Un plan! And all for the story and for the book. Didn’t get a chance to read a single goddamn page of my book yesterday, so the 360 pages sit in the thorax of this laptop devil, waiting for me and laughing at my inconsistencies. They won’t be neglected, I order myself with the heater still going and my coffee cup losing its smolder…
Less than 3 minutes. Should look at notes and read Self for the meta-meeting I’m about to hold with the 1A-ers. Over a thousand, already, and feeling like I didn’t write a thing. Hate that. Wonder who has this office after me. Which adjunct. Have I met them? More than likely no. And who cares. They don’t. They don’t know me. None of us know each other in the adjunct pot, or ditch, or hole. And under a minute– concluding. Thinking. I’ll write Dav a letter.. or Amber.. or this new writer friend.. or Lila.. or Mom.. or Alice.. just keep communication and with the characters closest.

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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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First sip of Pinot..


 cherry, sweet soul, a song start to conclusion; spice but polite; varying harmony which only makes me more curious; I want to knowing better and kiss it again; Rich gentle clothy texture and pevasion, persuasion; darkness only to show fruit composition and layeredness– gorgeous and gregarious with its astounding steps–

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First time the adjunct’s had to sit and write, all day.

IMG_5081First accomplishment, if you could it so tag, running over 6.5 miles on tread. Then soonafter playing a bit of basketball. Felt amazing to workout again, feel my character come alive with elevated pulse and just the physicality that gets me closer to the 26.2 readiness. Then, delivering a sandwich to Alice at her school. Then the curious idea materialized on the way back home, before picking up lunch somewhere in our BV enclave; me getting a teaching credential, teaching high school English, preparing students for college composition; using my adjunct experience for prepping the students for what’s ahead; maybe being integral in the college application process; diving further into a more encompassing education; still entertaining the doctorate, feasibly in education, down the Road. Was going to investigate SSU’s program earlier but opted for a nap instead, woke to my alarm, brushed teeth only to have them again stained and coated in an added cup, that ‘breakfast blend’ coffee. Better today than whenever that first cup was. So much in my thoughts tonight after talking with Dad about a house purchase, seeing him so fluid and fluent and fanciful with numbers and budgets, anything organizational. And tomorrow I start, starting with the stash upstairs, and the change I have down here– no spending! No more lunches out! Nor dinners! This writer will be more than merely minimalist! Just the paper, pen, till the money comes from this blog and other associated paginated efforts– so I need not fret about printings… I’ve always wanted that ‘great consolidation’, I thought on the ride back from Alice’s school, and now I have all the reason to perpetuate and promulgate such. All to the blog, put all in the bottle, all of this Ox!
Sipping my cap, the Little Sumpin’.. tried an Oregon Pinot at Mom and Dad’s.. the… can’t remember it’s name.. took a picture of it. And speaking of wine, I’l get to RRV tomorrow after meeting with the two students.. I’m even arranging a lesson plan for the meeting, centralized around re-writing the Kerouac paper. I’m humbled that they’re so ardent in the meeting and the revision process. Should type the lesson plan and print it before bringing J to school..
Getting back into my studies of Poe, and not just for the Grim issue,IMG_5085 more for the exploration of consciousness and his shaping of imagery, and his word choice. His characters and the anonymous narratives only intrigue the reader further, and with the coming Creative Writing dimension to both the 1A and it’s all the more commissioned. My beer done, and I look forward to tomorrow, with the students most obviously, but the wine, the writing, the sights, photography– my last day of this ‘Spring Break’– which reminds me, ran into another adjunct at Whole Foods while picking up a Chardonnay (Monterey AVA, I think..) for Mom and some “Delicious IPA” from Stone for Dad. He was with his daughter and he posed, “Enjoying your break?” I told him I was and that I graded all before break. He said “Smart.” But then I confessed I had a wave about to land as soon as we all got back. We can’t escape it, the grading, as adjuncts or high school teachers or any educational level..
So tomorrow.. wine.. writing.. last day concept.. to make it fun, I do what. Going to let the story tell me. I’ll go to Arista after meeting the publisher for the Skyhawk Paper Mom told me about (meeting at 12 & Mission ‘muffin spot’..). Not sure she’d have much use for my prose, but it’d be nice to meet another writer/SELF-publisher. Hear Jackie whining upstairs. Hope he sleeps well, my little Artist. He has been, of late, but we’ll see. Time to close the day, my chapter append.. tomorrow will change the story just as it has me hemmed for better. (3/18/15)

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