Thought about going back to sleep and there’s no way the story was letting me do that. So the keys meet me first, before the sun does and before the run. I have a slight fear of running in this deprived stage, an encompassing opaque slate visually so I stay put, here on couch till I see some sliver of beginning day. Should be working on novel but this is me warming up, this is me stretching, this is me merely walking into my idea gym. Tonight must be all documented for the novel, for how Mr. Mass’ looks at wine and his job at a winery and how he thinks of himself at his age, which is mine, just before 36.. and an adjunct, always only part of the whole but never The whole, never feeling whole, but used.. the word ‘adjunct’ grounds and guides his life and thoughts and how he measures those around him. He doesn’t necessarily judge, but evaluate, wonders what would his like be if he had theirs, or is his life more desirable, or is it that bad in the adjunct war, being a part-timer with campus and with a tasting room station. Massamen looks at the books, his literary beacons and principles as what can save him– and I know I may be spoiling a bit but ‘adjunct’ is the word that guides the novel; it’s HIS thesis. And what more diagrammatic and demonstrative than one word; what punctuates the point more? He knows, or at least he feels, that They can’t touch him. And as it happens, truly epitomizing and typifying how little they care and how disinterested They are in the welfare of all adjuncts, they don’t ‘touch’ him; They don’t interact with him, invite him to any talks or panels, or even coffee. They stay They, and he remains he. But he has a renewed pride in his he-ness, in his rejected autonomy. I’m writing this novel not to slight the system on campus that keeps adjuncts at 75% of the teaching force and has full-timers and their tight little tenured conceptual hammock always swinging over us, but to show that something can be made one’s own. Take what you have, everything in Life, and work from there. Build from there. And far above Their self-assured eminence.
Hear some stirring upstairs, but I’m not sure who it is, was, more than likely Alice, as little Kerouac woke quite early, around 1AM, removing me from bed (left side, if you looking at it), and replacing me here, in my morning office spot, where I compose and just watch little Kerouac do what he does with his toys, and the pillows and whatever he can onthespot invent. I keep writing in this early Hemingway session, what I used to call Barleycorn sessions. At work, going to take an early lunch, like Bob at the old winery. 15-20 minutes, and I’m going to say I have work to get done which is true but I don’t need to reveal details or specifics, as I don’t have any. I’ll do a thousand words here in journal, then maybe run (but still no light, 5:22), then some words to novel. Which I said was due on the 20th.. but what if I could do it? Why can’t I? What’s stopping me?
It amazes me how dark it is down here, on this condo’s earthly floor, and how the sun has all this dark to combat. But I work in it, somehow, and the allergies attack me in it. An ambush, a sneak attack, and I can only mount resistance through typing, thinking about my novel and the semester’s closing weeks and my teaching and that first page of ‘Moveable Feast’, where he instantly incorporates the cold weather, or ‘bad’ weather I think he said, and the smell of the people– on that, it’s funny to me how so many wear either cologne, lotion, some potent perfume, or a scented oil into the tasting room. Some get irate in this intrusion but I just find it fascinating. I can build from that; I see things, or rather character dimensions to that.
Needing an allergy pill but I can’t rise, I can’t stop writing and I don’t want to wake little Kerouac. My Artist needs his sleep for the day ahead with his mother, and with his grandparents later. Wonder what wine Mom and Dad’ll open.– The internet quits. Need a new laptop, something to keep me trusting of the device I have to pound for these words. I stare out the window, left, waiting for that bell, the faint sometimes-blue, or timid orange, or lightened atmospheric obscureness, letting me know a run’s close. More motion upstairs, this time I think it’s Jack– SNEEZE! Me. That’s sure to lace his attention, and if he knows Daddy’s down here, my run’s to be delayed as it should be. As Kerouac ages, I more and more feel the urgency in spending ever tick and tock of that clock with him. Which is impossible I know, but that’s on my program, or in my vision, or at least on my perceptive and idyllic platter.
Closing closer to my thousand, 5:33, and I hear the fridge making some dripping or ticking sound– actually, yes, that’s not the fridge but the clock atop the TV closet. In this dark, senses are distorted. But encouraging somehow, for writers like me. I’ll only type a little for the novel here then leave the rest for the winery, and post form there to blog.– You’ll have to forgive me, reader, but the assault of the symptoms encircle me, making it hard to breathe and even harder stay quiet now as I’m always sniffling– SNEEZE! And sneezing. Still no light, left, and I wonder if I’ll even get a run this morning, and would it be so horrible if I didn’t? I hear Jack sneeze, realizing I might not run. I did run 14 miles Wednesday so maybe an extra recovery day would benefit the writer, in fact I know it would so then decreed, decreed!
The fridge makes its sound, that usual metal shake, which I can hid behind and have these types be louder and speedier, more determined.