…everything’s alright, my nerves a barbed ball

of indecision, I’m like a bear, lost, and in defensive mode and don’t know why.. not in the mood to eat and certainly not in any keep for more coffee.  I just need to meditate, focus on the moment as Mom once said, and involve my character with his instant immediacy; son down, son only eight days from turning 3, no papers to grade but much planning and writing to do before Tuesday, no word from HS TR (Healdsburg Square Tasting Room), wishing I could have a beer, really, more than coffee as that would calm me and force me to forget about stresses, and just one, no more than that.  Want to quietly slide to the kitchen to get one of my books, for some new gem or wick, but I can’t get up, I’m too much in visions, the image I seek, and fearful as I’m at the end of this project.  I can’t let all 300+ pages go to nothing, just rot here in the memory of a goddamn device.  Maybe I should just print it– wish I had a typewriter and wrote this as JK did ‘Road’, but there I go again, wishing wishing…..  Just embrace currency, and my demand that people see me as a writer, the same way these social media “gurus” or blogging muffins just put everything out there, no matter how meaningless, empty, banal, like this one blogger as all she does is turn her phone around and talk into it, maybe push a couple products or other bloggers, cover some events or conventions, and suddenly she’s a sage.  Give me a break!  Does she write?  No.  But she’s there, she’s ‘pretty’, she talks, she has a phone to shoot everything from being stuck in an airport to interrupting chefs while they cook.  Makes me lose more faith in our collective condition.

Crayons, letters and numbers, toys all about the floor, and we just had this place clea–  4 sneezes.  Goddamn this bug!  I push through it, maybe I should have coffee, then a beer, then another coffee, then go for run, show this microbial that I will kick its ass!  I think what bothers me most about being sick is that I look sick to my son.  I don’t want him to see me anything other than strong, now I know that’s not sensible but that’s what floats through my thinking– in fact it doesn’t float, it very much marches.  The student in me, after morality in characters around me and why they do what they do and choose to react the way they do, or maybe they don’t.. just want to be a student again.  Last semester, at the end, when I did final journal checks I noticed that many of them, the stronger students, would write down much of what I said, highlighting and underlining and rushing their own supplementary marginalia!  I connected with them!  But they very much connect with me, I realized, and I remember right where I was: last morning at Mendo with the rain plummeting outside, after the 9:30 section, after checking either Ira’s or Suzanne’s pages (two strongest in that group).  And I study them, all the students of this semester, and depend on them for ideas in how they react to books like Big Sur and ‘Road’.

The rain now thinking about returning but it’s reluctant, dawdling.  No rush, I think to myself, as I start to feel a bit better and was just messaged by Ms. Alice that she’s on her way home, to pick up Oliver’s sandwiches for us both.  So kind of her, as she always is– feel a sneeze coming but I won’t let it.  The wind pushes Jackie’s swing, tree by glass door barely budges.  The weather like me doesn’t know what to do, what to say, what to put on page.  I’m impressed, as I get distracted, at what a marvelous and encompassing mess my son made of the cleaned living room floor, area, as if to reclaim it.  He had prestigious quickens and militancy with how he scattered the items, and I’m glad I was here to survey it, but didn’t appreciate it till now.  As a dad I guess I should rush to clean it, put everything back, teach him not to make a mess or what be, but I want to admire what he’s done, is that wrong?  Am I doing the whole ‘dad’ thing, the parenting bit, role, responsibility wrong?  I see this as becoming more a topic with me in my narrative pieces, how to father, or parent, or maybe just write out a list of questions for my readers and have them tell me, be hired coaches or a bit to the lean.

Tonight I should open a wine that I should and simply because I shouldn’t, just to enjoy it and use it as writing fodder.  Character analysis, imagine Mr. Massamen sipping it after a 7-9:40 class that he has once a week, on Thursday evenings.  His weekend is here and now he can relax and write up a lecture and submit it to the university but they don’t want it no matter how brilliant it is ‘cause he doesn’t have a doctorate– “We actually save the lecture segments for our full-time PhD’s, sorry,” the department secretary said over the phone last week when he inquired after seeing a call for lectures.  “The fucking flyer in N Hall didn’t say ANYTHING about that, about having a fucking doctorate,” he thinks, so he writes the plan for Monday’s 8AM English 100, the ‘Reading & Writing’ section.  He has another glass, starts to write about the wine and the approach it takes to his sense and it interacts this way, in this moment, only to him and with him, AT him.  His thoughts go everywhere and he doesn’t want them to halt even slightly.  He’s lightening in that chair, two classes that consumer him.. and that’s all he wanted at this point in his life, to be consumed and to consume what it was he really wanted.  No more wine industry stints, full-time, he’d teach, lecture, hold workshops, take notes, help other teachers and fight the adjunct war that needed fighting.  He wouldn’t leave as he did in ’11 to work in the wine world, no never again, he’d be a frantic bee about his notebooks and texts and students and people would know him for his energy, his connection to students and the passion he poured while there at class’ head..