8:22 in Kenwood lot, unprecedented. I feel realization and revelation everywhere, from knowing I won’t teach at Mendo next term to the magazine to the novel and the shape it takes to my new column on blog about adjunct life– adjuncted.. adjunct’d… adjunct ed’– Everything’s speaking to me this morning. Cathy driving up earlier than early, almost so much that it worried us, Alice and I, in fact it did, but she did come up to care for little Kerouac, and me here in the lot looking at the clouds that promise rain that promise a slow day in that tasting room, fine with me– should be grading right now but I’m not anywhere near a mood for such. I will grade on their dime, bring the papers in with me, in the room and have my blog in the long thin closet where everyone else keeps their character items. Was going to get my usual burrito and sparkling water [really Dr. Pepper], but decided on small coffee, only 1.50. Save, save.. what the writerpubisher has to do. And what John the full-timer, the only full-timer I really like or enjoy talking to on campus, told me yesterday about a student of his last semester, who blogs and posts everywhere on social media’s twirly highway now having an apprenticeship as a sports journalist.. I think, why am I here, doing this, at this age, why can’t I get some kind of “break” like that? I can, I just have to change my strategy, throw words and my lit everywhere. Another sip.. oh caffeine working for me and the Bobby Hutcherson plays loud in this Suburu’s cabin. Think the mocha my mother-in-law brought for me had whole milk. Horrible. Not her fault. I blame me. I should only drink straight coffee. Of course, saves money, but as well and more importantly better for the paragraphing fluidity. Don’t feel guilty at all about no grading getting done in this sitting. I deserve this. Two months from today, a Sunday, before finals week. Can’t wait for this term to be over, and no more commuting. I do enjoy the qualities of the drive up there, but once there, I feel that mood and reality constrict. Work, the workplace, the overseers: a hypogeum.
Only 8:35. I love this, this freedom in morning to write and be what I want to be, disposition-wise. These clouds, looking like they want to say something, but are waiting for the right time. Now’s fine with me, but it’s not my call, at all. Jeff, the Palooza owner, expanding his business, answering only to himself, and so many others I know with their own business.. and me, still trying, rushing for Autonomy. I stay Zen, practice its personhood principles, and relax, collect, introspect. And now I feel stuck in thought, but not a thing to write, truly parked, broken down like a rent-a-car on 12, some tourist on a vacation where everything’s not postcard-y. Rising above all stress and predicaments, noble Truths in this moment, all around me from the parking lot itself to the dead tree to my right to the Mayacamas to all the passing cars– this is a scene, a moment, and there’s no time with this, just thoughts.. and I find it, my Equilibrium. Much of it in stories, the recounting of not counts but instances, reflections and reactions, the moment compilation we all just label simply, “Life”. I forgot about the grading I have to do, how lovely, how lotus, how Peace-ing. Sugarloaf [if it’s one word.. I could look it up on my phone but I don’t want to touch that devilish thing] looking down at me, inviting me for a walk. Wish I could, but I’m chained. And I have no fear of getting let-go, if the winery would be so kind, but it won’t, ever.
In tantivy. Going after what I want, and what I want are words, more words, and sentences and images and people. One student in a class this semester, won’t say which campus or time, has a literary eye, and lens, uses it in every session and has no problem looking further into the text to find what she or he needs, wants to see– interpretive, yes, but lively in a way I’ve never seen. Wish I had the free time to just read, not even leisurely but because I want to, and write and not have to think about the papers I have to grade, I don’t want that guilt. This session, I now realize, a meditation with no anchors or fixing objects. More and more into my Zen practice, my character re-shaping at 35. In this year of age I will perfect the character I’m to embrace for my remaining days, however many I have left– and don’t get worried, I know very well I have many, many to share with little Kerouac and Ms. Alice. Over 30 minutes till I have to be on property, free, freeing, this entry, the jazz and the coffee– requesting days off for November: 4, 6, 7, and 22. I’ll email the inept commandant today. Will be more than nice to have a series of days to Self, grade and write and run and breathe.. breathe…
As writers we should only focus on our own character, how we develop, before constructing others, and who I am, today and forward, is somebody tired of orders and expectations and the circle, the opportunistically immoral overseers. They’ll always get their bonuses, rewards, while we starve. I won’t stay quiet, and I know ‘it’s a small industry, you don’t want to start trouble’, people always say that. But the decided absoluteness of it all: I. Don’t. Care. I’m a writer, and I reveal truth, and the truth is that I’m not willing to compromise anymore, on anything. I’m too old to just roll over, not hit back. I know, that’s not very Zen of me, but that’s my character, at the moment and forever.