“This is good running weather, Mike,”

Marcus said, hurrying his two daughters into the white SUV as I walked away from his house, leaving Jack with Lisa, her assistant Kelly.  I agree with him, in spirit.  But it’s so cold outside, I don’t know if I could even get my mind to focus on the run itself.  And, writing sounded better this morning.  I’m in the condo’s nook, mocha at right, croissant left.  No rush to leave.  Not even to café.  Couple errands I need done: trip to Schwab, then B&N to get different version of ‘Feast’, the one India bought, so we’re on the same page, in all respects.  Cold down here, at 8:54am.  Last temp reading I saw was, I think, 27’.  Either way, I’m bunkered, lovingly.  23 degrees, actually, from a picture that Alice texted me.  English 5 today, I’ll ask them, simply, when talking one-on-one, “How far along are you?” Looking for an estimated percent, or something like it.. a measure of some sort.

Oh this croissant…  Want my city, again, again.  Just have to finish my first narrative.  That’ll put me on the Road.  And the whole office I wanted.. still do, just not as badly, nor as soon, as the Road.  I want sights, Newness.. you already know.

This little xmas tree, giving the space around it more notes; more sweetness, punctuated pine, nutty characteristics as well, from what I can tell.

I do want to get back to my running.  What I think I’ll do, after stopping by Schwab, is go to the gym, reactivate my membership there.  Maybe, I’ll pack my gear today, head to gym right after class.  Just run 45-50 minutes.  No mile goal, no avg mile target.  Just for the love of running, get back into my stealth form.  And I should, especially if I’m going to do this Annadel ‘half’ in April, that Alice mentioned to me last night.  Putting it officially on radar.  Running tonight, at gym.. done.

9:04am.  First thing I thought of this morning, when I woke: PhD app.  Putting all my scattered notes, writings, everything, in a manila file.  And I hope to type ONE page today, towards the Plath article.  “So what is Ms. Plath?  What type of writer is one obsessed with understanding themselves, documenting everything?” I just wrote in the other laptop doc, set for my article.  Bringing a lot with me today, to Petaluma and back: regular class materials, running items, Hemingway letters, Plath books, PhD app folder…  Making today one of the best, if not THE best of the year.  How much longer?  […] The calendar/day counter’s telling me 1 year, 28 days.  Thought that was yesterday’s ticker.  Anyway, time’s still moving, and I won’t let it outrun me.  Not this time.

Too many Plath notes in too many locations, ‘cause of the makeshift notepads I make at work.  Not a good thing.  Consolidate, immediately.

4:04pm.  In adjunct cell, with time to write.  Nothing but writing time.  This morning’s workshop session with the 5 crew, inspiring, to me at least; hearing students convey their ideas, in such impassioned and unique ways, only motivates me as an instructor.  Texts ordered for next term, finally.  The bookstore manager, Antonella, told me that many instructors still haven’t ordered, nor responded to any of her notices.  Yes, I used to leave ordering to the last minute, but since taking more ownership of my lectures, teaching practice in general, I’d never fall to such ways again.

At 4:30p, I’ll head back to the little café here, get my last mocha for the day.  That makes 3, totaled.  So thankful I don’t feel as I did on Tuesday.  That was awful in ways I don’t even want to remember.  Tonight, I’m energized, propelled, eager to end this semester on the most motivating points I can conjure.. for the students.

Going to pop the Meritage I took home last night.  Nearly a full bottle.  I only plan on having two glasses, then getting a nice night’s rest for morrow.  Don’t see it getting too busy around the estate, but who knows.  With Monday and Wednesday of next week off, I’ll make my classes’ calendars, begin on the syllabi, first lectures.  Hear someone’s children, another instructor’s, probably a full-timer, in the hall.  They scream, laugh, debate, then back to wild chuckling.  Makes me realize that little Jack, my little Artist, won’t be little forever.  Hard to think of my little friend as anything other than a baby.  The hardest part of being a father thus far.  But I do look forward to days where we can play catch, run, go for “stomps” in Annadel, as Dad and I do.

Looked at my students this afternoon, with their printed drafts.  In envy.  That printed.  I have yet to.  Hypocrite!  Tomorrow morning, before taking Kerouac to Lisa’s, I print three poems.  Have someone at work read them.  Who?  Courtney.  She’s always appreciated my Literary efforts.  And the article I read in P&W, on Self-publishing.  What the bloody swill am I waiting for?  In this very laptop document, for the blog (bottledaux), I’m currently on the 368th page.  THREE HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT.  And no book?  Nothing printed?  Nothing to sell?  What is you problem, Mike?  Just print it.  To Hades with it all.  What do you have to lose?

Feel like a beer now, actually.  Had a burrito from caff’.  Didn’t eat the whole thing.  Ignored most of the tortilla, hard as it was.  Didn’t want even a drop of exhaustion that accompanies a heaping core.

The day I have my own office, on campus, or off.. worthy of ballad composition.  Older I stroll, I hate interruption.  Other adjuncts entering, ones with whom I share this space, wanting to greet, talk, discuss texts, lesson ideas.  I’d rather be alone left, let to work on what I’m currently touching.  They see me with open laptop, or writing in journal, busy/involved/engaged/entangled.. but they still talk to me, in such a tone that I can only turn, interact.  I hate that.