How

When the thought of life makes its way to my thought plate, I always entertain how much we have, how much is left in the story.  Then, I ask myself, “Why do your thoughts go there, to that tenor?” I have no answer for anything just a perpetuation in the momentum of thoughts.  How do we perceive life, correctly?  IS there a “correct” “way”?  I suppose it’s how we define our life and the manner of navigation.  How do we live, how do we value the moments, and to ask why is to demand some system or methodology to the actualization, no?

Between classes, more on the thought plate, concerning the next class, English 1A.  Hard to concentrate with man in the room talking over phone, but it’s my fault for being here, for being in this faculty lunch room.  But, I realize something, on how this happens, how I got here… choices.  The election to come here and hope to get work done with no noise.  This is a place of noise, this building where the cafeteria is.  My life is spent here, and I want more of my life spent here and not in some business context.  I mean, I do want to do business, writing and self-publishing, publishing, and or other, but on my own pen, of my own strut.  Maybe I should get away from the word and thought of “business” altogether and just write.  I don’t know how much story is left, so I move, and I move with certain and specific fury.  My thoughts are here as I’m here, looking around campus and seeing all these young students with everything ahead of them and what’s ahead of me is turning 39.  But, no submission.  Not from me.  I can’t.  Not at this place in the story, my story, where I’m the main character and expected to… what.  To DO.

The correct way to translate all that’s around me with with positive inference, with a assurance that I’m, we are, getting somewhere.  More than somewhere, just some location or goal, but building our Personhood, one realization after another.  Time just continues with its insistence.  At some point we have to decide what is it for us, where we’re going and how to get there.  One approach and habit that has proved a boon is with journal maintenance, habit.  Putting words to paper, everyday, can only shove the dreamer to their place.  To defeat time, or maybe not defeat it but take away some of its significance, is to trap it.  Educating in certain moments, or even all of them, to some degree, degrees varying of course, but there is enrichment taking place.  But, how.  How do we learn the most we can from a day.  For me, obviously, writing and reading and re-reading what I jotted through the day, week, and if I don’t do it anytime soon I do eventually come back to that page.  Recently I’ve been finding dozens of old notes, some years old, and learning the then-me.  Where I was and what I thought.  Now, in the cafeteria building, between classes, I’m deliberating on how I make the next class one valuable to the student.  Value…. The value… where will they find value…. Simply in the discussion of Jane Austen, or in the address of something else, like the final paper for the semester?  No.  Answers are not in the ‘how’, but the ‘what’.  What I do with my life, my teaching role here at the JC, is what proves crucial, the most molding.

meditation

The day has a voice, I suppose.  But mine’s louder, more rhymes and with more wander and beaming momentum, notice.  So, I give it notice, put it on notice, that I’m not interested in what it intends.  I decide the rhythm and the song to be played, what I recite and the pace of such.  My ways are must, necessitated and in the moment, not at all pre-meditated.  For the most part.

Today, all parts of it, scenes and Roads, need know that I’m conducting.  My voice is loving, but assertive.  And here I go…. There is no decision to be made, not that I’ve already made one.  I’m simply moving, deciding.  The notice, Monday.

Mike Madigan.

IMG_3450…his own literary and written, creative efforts.  He’s not bitter toward the business, just seeing action as needed at this point in his life, before 39.  He turns 39 in one week, one month.  Mike can’t believe it.  There’s a certain mysticism and metaphysical framing and tangibility to aging, to life, he realizes this morning.  So he goes further into his thoughts… what he’ll say to students today.

He takes notes in his semester journal… natant in his notes, dreaming, seeing himself at other campuses.  This is the point in his life where he decides, he decides sipping the remainder of his mocha.  What is he supposed to do.  One thing—  Write.  Then share.  He doesn’t like the word teacher, as who’s he to teach?  He writes more in his notebook and ladles more musings, possibilities, sights of himself lecturing at Stanford, or anywhere.  He loves the student, the conviction and perception of the student, being a student— mentally alive in ways that no other human type can delight, or write.  Mike sees more life in the essays of his students, ones he writes to them, for them.  The morning trots onward into its numbers but Mike doesn’t mind it, not a drop.  He writes more, like he has only time and then none.  “This Now is never, and forever, impacting all story touches and cosmos.”