And I’m typing, I wrote yesterday but I feel like I didn’t write anything, not a thing, not a word, not a character or observation or word. Yesterday. But I did, but I did! I keep saying to myself. Up with Jackie before having to get ready for work, wondering when I’m going to have time to grade these first papers. With this new tasting room chapter it’s difficult, more than difficult to get the papers marked, read, even a quick skim-through. Need coffee and you might think “Why hasn’t he poured himself a cup already?” I don’t know, but I’m tired, and with thoughts that things, matters and elements and dilemmas are accumulating, like they did last semester. But I won’t permit that, somehow, somehow I’ll stop the accumulation before it becomes tidal. I’ll grade 10 of the 1A submissions tonight, then 10 tomorrow, then 10 more Monday. My desired, or envisioned practice is the old ‘twenty today and twenty tomorrow’ perspective, but that’s quite tough to pull off– I just realized how much I love this, this knot, this entanglement over my passion and to-do with the students and what I assign them; I assign the prompt, and they write, they submit, they sit at their respective tables and compose, then press ‘print’, then submit. Which is far more noble and worth of readership than this blog. At least that’s what I’m singing to myself now.
Should be running today, this morning rather, when Alice wakes. Just want 5 miles logged, that’s all, and that’s all I have time for this morning. What assignments this next week, I think, about how to keep the sessions original, and electric. The only way for me to teach is, for lack of a better word (again, no coffee yet), theatrically. Not just in my presentation, but in the ideas themselves. To show the students that I am the consummate thinker, the “teacher” that lives and breathes the idea; he takes it home; he’s always writing; he knows what he wants and what he wants to do.
At one point in the day yesterday, earlier, right when I bought my mocha from the SBUX down the street, it rained, gently, but not enough to compromise anything, be they thoughts or motions or efforts. But there was a mood, one subtle but thematic. It made me think of Mom and Dad in Paris, and if it’s raining there, and how it rained voluminously when we were there in ’09. The small water ticks also had me wondering when the season will show actual change, shove us all into Spring. That would motivate new topics, new scribbles, and I don’t have time in this new tasting room to collect a written thought as I did at the last winery (the estate). So I have to plan more, which is mature but I don’t care much for executing. But I have to, I don’t want to feel what I did last night, or this morning as soon as I woke, like I wrote nothing, like I’m not a writer, like I’m just floating, and hovering above a blank page, imagining and dreaming, and wishing I were a “real” writer. I couldn’t let that be the case this morning. And again, I did write yesterday, and the real most sincere way with ink onto lines, and my Comp Book left with me, to be put back in the car (trunk) more full and more paginated with my day and story of the adjunct– And I know, the Massamen novel, when am I going to start it, officially, and when am I editing ‘Forced Avarice’? I know I know, I say to myself, followed with the old promise of “soon.” Famous last words. It’s always what I do aside from adjuncting that interferes. Even if I had a load of six classes I wouldn’t struggle this much to pin a few moments for projects. Why? ‘Cause I’d have the weekends, Saturday and Sunday consecutively just for my Self, and meditation, and the projects that will define my writing “career”.
The clock, I can’t stop looking at the time, why, I hate those numbers and how they control me and intercede with vivacity. Shame. But it’s normal, and certainly a universal address, and time for us as writers, as I shared with both classes (esp 1B), can be both foe and motivating force. Right now, it’s a bit of both.
Thinking I’ll wake early tomorrow, have no wine tonight and be in bed early, start March with an intense early morning interval, possibly around 7 miles, or 7.5, something around there, like I used to do with Bonnie a while back. Running makes me a more devoted writer and one with a path outside of teaching, and while running I can’t write which sometimes bothers me and others I feel’s a boon to my journals and to my story collectively. So I need to run more, significantly more, show everyone around me that I’m a ‘real’ runner, or a serious one anyway. That I’m focused on my races, I wait for them to arrive at my present day the same way a child waits for their birthday; their day, the whole day is theirs, it’s all about them. That’s how my race days will feel. And I’ll be sad when training’s over, as that means the race is here, and will soon be over. But then I’m excited again, childlike, as there’s another race a month, or a couple months away.
6:39, Alice still asleep. I look left, through the blinds, and the sun’s not yet in its noted rise but there’s just enough atmosphere color to call it “day”. Would love to run in this, this light and the metallic air with its cooled shadows and partial comfort (as you have to stay running to remain “comfortable” or not with shiver).
Coffee ready. Only allowing Self one cup and that’s it. Want my energy and momentum, all motions, to be natural and not forced. Tuesday: Meditation, talk about the concept in Hem’s work vs Kerouac’s.. find the meditation, and ask the students why we meditate (find definition and explore, experiment with connotation and denotation)…