stamp 2

Tempted to take a nap but I won’t let myself.. “But you need rest!” Huh?  What?  Says who?  I’m an adjunct, everything is against me, even the institution at which I teach and the system within which I do, so no sleep.  I sleep, they’ll attack while I’m at rest.  And this pugilist gets no rest!  The fight won’t let.  Maybe after this thousand words.  I need more poems, more prose pieces that I can perform– and more coffee, the coffee will keep me in study.. book next to me, the one I elected, ‘Vanity of Duluoz’.  No surprise.  Just called Arista and my checkbook IS in the drawer, the one where I place my keys. Relief, nice I think and how nice it is that I have this quiet, so why would I sleep?

People always ask me about the students I have, “can they read well?” or “how are they?” What do they want me to say, I wonder to myself, and is there a certain answer they’re looking for?  I remember that class my senior year, the Creative Writing class, Mr. Sullivan’s, where I knew, then there and in that seat, that I was to be a professor.  But here I am, one not full-time, and I’m not sure I want to be ‘FT’, or do I?  Or even: COULD I?  This isn’t any kind of depression or anxiety, worry, or stump.  Just thoughts.  And I deserve to have my thoughts.

Part of me wants to go for a walk, just a short one– and my internet cuts out, the jazz shut off.  “Goddamnit!” I think.  But I put myself in that position.  Why do I need the music.  Why not the quiet that I now have and I have to type these keys continuously for that, or some, comforting noise.  Need to print more.. this typing just to post to a blog is annoying me.  I’m annoying me.  This condo’s annoying me and the laundry room with all hobgoblins and oddies that pass through there, just staring at me, never saying hi, always looking so bitter.  Hopefully we move soon so my son doesn’t have to see that nonsense.

When do I read next?  Tuesday when back, yes, but also the next open mic, which I think is Thursday, Redwood Café.  Need to be out there more instead of just posting my pages and hoping I’m being seen ‘out there’, which is only a virtual ‘out there’.  Fucking tech.. like a drug that I hate to love to hate and only hate more the more I use it!  Circles and cycles and cyclones– ideas muted and awaybooted by each button I push.  So after this thousand I cut my connection and type only to print.  In high school, we had internet, but not so monstrously, it didn’t dominate us, it was there but we didn’t depend on it, it was more ‘if I want to use it then I will’.  Now.. we’re doomed, damned, against our own will jammed.  And I always say I’ll distance myself but I can’t, I have to blog, can’t afford to print, not now anyway.  I just need to moderate.. reserve the right to have my own private or “secret” pages as Kerouac advocates in his rules.

Oh but a nap sounds so good, great.. grand!  I need to collect and re-collect.. or I could go for that walk, observe, watch the cars speed down Yulupa faster than they should or go to the market and walk the isles, pretending I need something but leave with the fictitious warrant, “I forgot what I needed.” I’m indecisive, and this must be the madness I wished for.  But I can’t handle it, or maybe I can, maybe I need to slow down– or– what.  Slow, fast, speed determined by what it is in my head and what’s there is a library, mine, thoughts and ideas generated from past authors and this one if you’d be so kind.  The adjunct, adjunctification– a word that I permit, even if it’s just contrived and coaxed… so is our job security…

Thinking I need a shower and some time, think.. think.. my observation of people when you pass them in the market or at the mall (which I rarely anymore frequent, as my fear of crowds has only expanded as I’ve aged), or on campus, they’re disconnected, they’re drones, bots; self-involved and moved to a screen; greetings are no more.  Communication, just the casual ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ have dissipated.  Again, just an observation.  What the bigger statement is, anyone’s hypothesis.  But mine: we don’t need each other anymore.  The sense of community has been negated by the ever-presence of devices, and “social” medium.  The virtual.  Huh, funny I type this on my laptop, and after I just checked my email on my phone.. I know, I know…..

Wonder if there’s any baseball on.  It’s preseason now, and there has to be a game, somewhere.  My days in baseball, playing, long over, but I always remember those home runs I hit with Dad as witness.  I often think of that, and how I could have that same feeling, that same connection and glory and elevation again, with writing.. a bestseller, an acclaimed writing of some kind, lecturing at Stanford or anywhere, at any university on the Road.. I need a home run, a slew of them, an MVP season.. blend of Mantle and Ruth and Williams and Mays.. none of these modern sponsor whores.

11:13AM:  still morning, technically, and I’m in need of motion, action, reading.. and I think I will go out, but only briefly.  Mom ordered me to stay home and I hate to disobey–well, her and my wife, Ms. Alice–but I need stimuli.  So yes, I’m failing, or I will if I DO go out, at my intent of staying in here, to find that madness.  But that’s what the story is telling me to do.  So glad I didn’t lay my head down on this couch pillow.  So.. shower, coffee, drive…..