Impressionist Moving

Kelly, expressionist/impressionist coquettishness.


10:03am.  That line, above, the last thing I last night typed.  Appt went well.  No cavities, or at none they saw.  The dentist, Larry, out of town with wife.  In Chicago, then going to visit son, Brant, in Minneapolis.  At Starbucks, tiny baby crying, Mom holding carrier, rocking it in reassurance, rushed comfort.  “Aw.. poor thing,” I said quietly.

The man next to me, in line, heard, saying, with smile, quietly, “Eh, life’s tough.” He then went to tell me how he’s more annoyed by such cries, aggravated, as he worked construction his whole life, and would never get back to sleep when his FOUR children would wake.  FOUR.

The man then asked me if we were planning on another, after it was pulled from me that I have a 20mo/o little boy.  I told him, “I don’t think so, no.” Then after ordering his latte, I think it was, he said, “Good luck with that,” then scooted to the waiting area by the merchandise.  Wasn’t sure how to take that, ‘good luck with that’.  What does that mean?  Does that mean I won’t be able to resist having another child, or my life will be harder, not as happy in his view, if I hold mySelf to one offspring?

This man, interesting as a character.  Didn’t surprise me when he told me he worked construction, “hard, hard labor,” as he put it, operating jackhammers, tractors, other machinery requiring might, true brawny muscle.  He looked tired, happy to be retired–  OH, now I remember.. what started the whole interaction was him leaning in, so his mouth would be past my left ear, still a bit near, awkwardly, shooting direction antithetical to mom, saying, “I’m so glad I’m past that.” Also an interesting comment, in my view.  As fiercely I love Jack’s current age, I do somewhat sadden when I realize that he’s growing, getting further from babydom.  The whole instance with this man, my reflection, and now that it’s recorded: a victory for Time; having me realize that minutes pass, I age, and there’s nothing I can do.  But write about it.

10:13am.  Loving this quiet.  My little Artist was a challenge this morning, it’s fair to say.  And this mocha.. love on palate.  Going to push self to wake early tomorrow morning.  For running, not writing.  I want to feel morning cold, that dark again.  My running has become more separated, infrequent, which I don’t at all like.  And, I want to simply wake early.  Want to be ahead of Jack, not waking as he does.  I want him to have a father that’s always in front of him, ready to guide.

This sun, again in my eyes [upstairs desk].  No problem at all.  I’ll work with it, use it.  The morning, my new favorite time.  Cold, fog on way to Lisa’s.. Autumn drum.

Already had two students email me, telling me they won’t make the English 5 session.  What should I do?  Maybe make it a short day, send them off with a large Plath reading assignment, then have a Plath Lab on Thursday, while also passing back their 2nd formal papers.  And on Thursday, an in-class essay.  Have to start piecing together final grades, as to be ahead of that undertaking, well as the students themselves.


4:08pm.  In adjunct office.  Ready for class.  English 5 went quite well, closing up Plath, then exploring the writer’s existence through a short film excerpt I brought [meant to be shown last week, but had a tussle with tech.. yes, another one].  Just checked calendar, and I have more than enough time to get everything done.  In fact, I’m re-organizing a couple things to ensure the melodic closure of this term.  Has it been my best ever?  Not sure, but certainly one of my best.  And, most memorable.

No wine tonight.  Not a single terminal drop.  I’ll be waking early tomorrow to run.  Failing not.  I won’t allow it.  As I run, I’ll write, behind eyes.  The man in the tasting Room, the other day, telling me how he wakes at 4am to run, as he commutes into NYC from afar.  I need to have such habit.  And enjoy wine only on nights eve-ing non-run days.  Can’t remember if it’s NJ, or PA.  But either way, it’s a trip, for that character, his daily commute.  How does he do that?  Oh, maybe he was the guy from DE.  How far is that from NYC?

Coffee could help right now.  Immensely.  Didn’t pack a lunch, so I opted for some Chinese from the campus caf’.  Not bad, but not close to mesmerizing.  Kind of bland, if you want truth.  Could have used more sauce, seasoning, something.  [Like I’m one to talk.. the character never cooking.. please.]  But anyway, I need coffee.  Let’s see how much change the writer has…  Over $4 in quarters, then a dollar coin.  Coffee, I’m coming–

4:31pm.  Leaving in 10.  Or 9, I mean.  With mocha, I’m realizing this unionization, of teaching, my writings, namely prose, is necessary, this stage in Life.  Want my mind to continue to push itSelf, push me to new realizations, Newness.  And NEW Newness.  Next semester, with my early classes, leaving rest of day to grade, organize, plan, structure, put Self ahead of students.  And write.  And get ahead of mySelf, which could prove.. well.. fun, for better wording’s absence.

After class, I’ll come back here to write, but only for a bit as I want to see the little Artist before he goes down for his rest.  Can already hear the decaf calling me, wanting me to grade five more papers, edit the book a bit, re-arrange some pieces.. plan Thursday’s classes.  Post to teaching blog.. write pen2paper–  Huh, the decaf is sure asking much of the writer, so early.  This 2shot mocha tells me to ignore the calls, focus on and ENJOY the moment.  Forget about what happens later, and what that flawed fuel wants of the writer, again, so early.

Such a lovely day, with a pleasing dentist visit, that coffee shop character, this afternoon’s class, and now.. NOW.  This quiet, this time to write.  One of my “colleagues,” I guess you could say.. possible character for book.  50, or almost 50, just landing FT position here at college.  She seems tired.  Passionate, sweet, incredibly knowledgable about anything concerning teaching.. but tired.  And a bit dissatisfied, or frustrated.  Can’t decide which.  And who can blame her?  After teaching high school for 16 years, adjuncting for I-don’t-know-how many, battling/scraping/searching for assignments…  I understand her.  Love her character.

4:41pm.  One thousand logged.  Now, to class for short meeting.  Simple, as we begin Poe, explore his works, search for beauty rather than torment, horror.