Had to break from novel writing. Already on page two of day’s 3 pages, or 3+pages.. mood low from the matter with Uncle Ross, and I can’t shed it, nearly tearing while dropping off little Kerouac at school, thinking to myself ‘What if something happened to me and he was left alone, and Alice was left alone?’ But then I toughened, hardened, that will nowhere me get.. so I sit on the couch, timing myself 55 minutes to write–now 52–and on with my day. If today’s slow, then I’ll write the rest of the day’s requirement behind the counter, or at one of those chairs on the porch, hoping the mosquitos don’t completely chow on my shell.
And the mood remains, the pessimism, the observation of Time and Life and how both can deliver merciless manuscripts to us all and just move on, move on like we don’t matter. The coffee’s not helping with my state so jazz then, the play the music the notes.. the lovely lawlessness of it all.
Researching the adjunct matter more, I realize I don’t want to be swallowed by it, that.. THEM! Life is far too brief for that.. and do I want that to be my battle? I’d rather wage war on publishers through my blogs and self– SELF-printings, than wait for some bloody measure to pass or some law to be approved, or some sort of recognition that finally shows and understands that we deserve more money. And benefits.. yeah, almost forgot about that part of the picket. NO, I want Art.. I want LIFE.. family.. WELLNESS, as my new writer friend Phoebe addresses in her work. Still haven’t heard from her and I don’t blame, no, she’s on assignment, doing what I hope to be– or rather, where I want to be in my writing and blogging career.. I’m writing, I’m always writing, but I want to be away from the adjunct noose and the having to have a part-time wine position. And I LOVE Arista, like I never have a winery, not even St. Francis.. but I don’t want to have to be there, don’t want the obligation and the chain and the schedule– demand, be THERE or else! No, not for the writer. This morning.. and mornings are a major consistency in the Massamen novel.. I’m understanding the value of a morning; how it starts, sets tone (cliché I know), initiates and establishes tempo, to use jazz terminology; play with pace and tonality, chord combinations and whatever else I think of in the moment. The schedule isn’t for me. And the Adjunct War evolves, into a total attack on that reality I could select but choose to dismiss. The more I read about them, adjuncts, the more pathetic it all is; why put yourself in that position? And if you do, why not make it work for you? I’m turning my back, on everything of that folding and I make it MINE. I’ll keep my teaching blog very much alive as that will be my classroom and how I “educate”– or better, exchange ideas on everything from notions of the Road, to Kerouac himself, to Theory, to punctuational conventions and how there’s more Art in the shunning of and– just wait, just wait.
And now the coffee works, and works well. Now, a sax, doing what it wants over the drums and piano (“Theme for Maxine”, Woody Shaw). This is me, this jazz and the mood it creates– I deny death anything, any presence close to me. Re-reading my drunken prose which I partially hate and a bit adore as it was honest and more music than most of my paragraphs of late. I just love this morning now, and no that doesn’t indicate any manic mentality, or maybe it does, but either way it’s truth, THE truth about today and me as a writer and the life around me. And notice.. no adjunct nonsense, none of it– the Adjunct War: how I fight is to not fight (Kerouac embrace of passive resistance), and yes I will win, technically, I can only, right?
Balance my character and prose and the novel will just happen, the Massamen story about not just adjunct nonsense, more, more than the expected and what’s always being written by adjuncts. And it’s not me trying to find myself– I already know who and WHAT I am, simple, a writer. And the coffee’s speaking to me with a volume that it sometimes does when it’s angry with me, my mood, but it won, I’ve changed in my scope and attitude this morning– and there, like that, I have a memory of the last winery, there full-time, more than merely miserable, always being barked at for something. But no more of that either! In my Wellness, there will be NO authority over me, EVER! The key to being Beat is that you dance to your own, establish your own tempo and are sovereign in all thinking and action; and Create from that flight, that aloftness you capture. And just now, nearly 36, I capture it, I have it and am playing with it. That’s how I want Jack to see me, my little boy, as a father free from Authority and any devil wanting me to be content with impoverishing wage. These adjuncts do it to themselves, partially. I mean, why stand for that? Well then you could say, they don’t, they assemble, they become active. Okay, I respond, and how’s that going? Get creative, I argue! Scribe your own set of convictions!
Still over 20 minutes for my SELF. This morning meditation. LIFE, I say, LIFE.. ignore Death. Laugh at it. It takes people from us, but not the impression they left; not the love and closeness we felt. Death is only part of the rotation, something plain and obligatory and one-dimensional. I feel sorry for Death, frankly. It’ll certainly never win against Artists like me. Huh, now I run out of anything– words thoughts meditation and sight.
More to do.