And tired. No mood for anything, even with the coffee posing its puissance.. After 1A go to bank, then to home, and after 1B work around condo.. nothing Literary about the day, or that I can see so far. This morning’s climate and stage brings fog of that blue-brined purple, and the mist away burns like its frightened of all the cars coming to park in the nearby lots. The coffee tells me to toughen up, that it’s not doing its job for nothing that I need to forget all that stresses me and think outside the box like it’s been telling me for years, and like I told myself the other day. “Which box?” I react, “This office? This adjunct office? This adjunct role? This patternized dehumanization? This one? This?” It just smiles back. I get it now, now I see what it wants me to see.
Interviewing a winemaker tomorrow and I’ll take more notes that I ever knew I was capable of taking– I’ll record everything he says and everything I observe and I’ll limit my article to 1,000 words.. four pictures.. maybe a video somewhere else, separately.. but I’m going to learn and step onto his property, that tasting room as a journalist, a wine writer not so much just a writer who loves stories and successes and people who thought outside the box and executed something to their benefit, betterment.. and he’s a dad, of three kids I remember, I believe accurately. Anyway, I’m quite sure we’ll share staunch similarities..

10:03, home, tired, diving headfirst into more coffee and readying myself and my ideas for 1B– the Critical Thinking section where it can only be loved, how they think “Critically” and show their liveliness from page and from their souls. This morning in 1A we explored the plain of career, how we choose one, “what we do now and what do we want to do, and what will that do for us.” I very much participated in this discussion and listened more so to what the students had to say. They taught me, an immeasurable amount about dreams and what brings them happiness and what they want, how they see themselves in whatever ‘career’ they target. I’m finding that work and what we do for a living and how we react as receipt of that career is much what defines us as characters. My interview with the winemaker was cancelled for tomorrow, on their call not mine, but I’m writing anyway.. I will stay busy and get caughtup with my novel.. Right now, I just enjoy the freedom of my writing and the quiet of the condo and seeing myself away from chasing assignments and simply pouring– I want wine to be more than intimately arched in my paragraphs and short pieces, articles or what be–
Listening to jazz and just relaxing in my home, or my home for the next couple weeks or so. The move before us, my wife and I, and so much frenzy and disorder, not of our doing that’s just how moves are I guess. That’s always been my experience.
Still feel like I’m in that office, ‘cause I’m in adjunct mode. And is this what I want, being an adjunct? Yes and no. I don’t want to be dependent. I want to teach a class here, there, and not be harness to this indenturedness.. coffee coffee, where are you?
There.
Made.
But I wait. Don’t want to jitter too fiercely. In fact, I should break from the page, and just relax, listen to the jazz, this track by Steve Lacy.. and daydream. Feel like I always have to be moving and shaking and productivity– the dilemma so human, and so fearful, “Am I using my time wisely?” I always self-interrogate.
I re-read my notes on Baldwin for the 1B, on ‘Down at the Cross”, and expand upon fantasy, and what fantasy is, and how I as a writer and thinker and lecturer want no part of it– no disillusionment, and that’s what They capitalize on, the chairs and deans and whores of trustees, the president.. I won’t let them play me anymore. Wine and Literature.. my life’s remainder, how I want to be seen by my children as I’ve said.. so today’s different, and my mood’s elevated from this morning in that goddamn adjunct cell. This office, this condo floor, on my floor with legs extended, laptop atop, has me centered, in MY Wellness, ZEN’d for sure, and I’m grateful.. I’m poetic, and I’m speaking form the coffee (cup 2 me awaits in kitchen), so so so… Now I jitter, but more a jitterbug than anything, dancing with Grandma as she told me she did long ago with Grandpa.. so much in my veins now and am I vain for expressing so? This is my work, my career and future I write– each moment its own standalone..
Have to get in the shower in 4 minutes, and this laptop dies. Don’t want to stop, don’t want to leave my ideas and this spot on the floor. First sip of coffee tells me to think outside the box and don’t follow your schedule, getting in the shower so you can leave on time and be at Petaluma campus and go over Baldwin and speak to students barely interested and have no urge to be aware of the movement he represents– I shouldn’t say that, not all of them, but when I look at the students and see that annoyed stare at the wall behind me or at their notebook, like they’d rather be doing something, anything, else, and that coupled with how we adjuncts are just tossed, tossed around, into whatever sections are leftover, I fall further into surrender. Oh, and I still haven’t heard from SSU. Of course.
My office is me, the character and these thoughts I carry with me; how I hear jazz, how I react to the day, what I’m needing to say, share through these sentences.

(4/28/15)