And the day, effete.

Me on couch no more wine and a return to work tomorrow.  Walk, 3 miles, with Jack and Alice up Woodview and now I think of the image I committed myself to capturing in this morning’s SBUX visit– I told myself I have to note just one image, just one.. and it was the sink behind their bar.  It seemed to me that everything revolved around that sink, that all actions from the baristas in one way or ‘nother configured angularly to it.  A sink.  Washing their hands or some carafe or some spoon or something, something.  But beyond that I could only loosely compare it to the sinks we used to have behind the bar at the winery before the remodel, then I pause, pummeled by writing blockade.  Not that I believe in it, but that’s what I felt.  Knee still hurt from yesterday’s run, and I can’t help but loathe the reality of me tomorrow at work.  This is a year new and I’ll only to Self stay true, write my letters and support my fellow whoso writers.  Speaking of and in: the first put on bottledaux tomorrow, at some point, maybe whilst writing in loft.  The loft, where I collect.  I need to get there tomorrow, and the earlier the better.  And more coffee–  I know, the espresso, I still haven’t written to that.  Maybe tomorrow.  Need to do some research right now, for next semester, which I have to make my own even though I still feel very much tired from last, that bloody drive to Mendocino…  Calm, peace, meditate…  There.

But I’m reminded of my first day teaching Kerouac and the journey and symbol of the Road, freedom, so I can’t stop till I reach a certain count and the thoughts of next semester keep drowning me before they’ve even reached shore; poison, and then what, and FOR what?  An adjunct, the biggest and most successful big scam, wondrous and metastasized everywhere in America.  And these grad students, the ones of today, the biggest victims, oh the community colleges and fucking universities love them!  And I’m changing, I’ve changed as I told my wife tonight.  New Year so Newness in everything I do and write and think.  I need to see the Road so I can show my son what I know and that what I know is worth knowing, and this isn’t some epistemological snare I’m eager to blare no it’s truth like I’ve never known.  They probably think I’m only good for that bar, pouring wine and not thinking–  They think that teaching’s just a sidejob for me but it’s me as it’s a writing project, part of the standalone fury to fall this year and the one after, the one after.  I want to be a Dean, and travel and learn and observe, write while staring at roofs and driving cars to drive them, just to drive, drive…

Rose to use the restroom and somewhere in that progression to that small washroom just a few feet away I forgot where I was.  Odd?  No.  As there’s more on my mind than I expect at this new year’s beginning, and with that I need a break, and clean break, a violent break from all holding me in place, no?  I’m starting to lose concentration and interest and energy in the day.  It’s 2015, I get it.  Wish things, everything, simpler.  This phone, use it less.  This laptop, this goddamn bloody button bucket, same.  And running, maybe less after the marathon, 16 days 4 months away.  More stretching, Yoga, meditation, fasting.  And if I’m a candle I’m one that burn but doesn’t burn.  I’ve evaporated into my own madness, my maddened reads of things, of my own writings and the texts I so admire.