This Day, oh this day, this musical day..

went to Pride winery and was kept and transferred and pushed by everything I saw, heard, spoke about with the Pride pride… And now I’m here in the SRJC library more than prepared for my session– oh you should see me reader fly over these keys with my 4-shot mocha and the Kerouac books and notes and the poem I wrote yesterday with my new 100 crew, one I titled “No Math in That”, in response to one of those National Geographic daily pics I put on screen. And I feel more than alive, this writer, those vineyards on that mountain and the Big Sur-ish quality of the drive, most of which I drove with no music playing. The entire route back to the Autumn Walk castle I had not a single measure or note slipping through the Passat’s speakers. I’m on the fourth floor now, where I’ve written before, staring out at those trees, the campus trees that dominate the quad between this library and the bookstore. And when I’m on the Road, with my Kerouac paper, much of which tackles the notion of a Road, THE Road, or anyone’s Road, and how it can be either paved or ‘un’, but how there’s more reward in the lack of quietude; there’s struggle, and that struggle’s the gift, the Road’s gift to the one writing it! Oh, need to write that….. Just did, one page in the legal pad I used toward the end of last semester.
The trees move a little outside, wind or slight gusts, either way activity. Need a sparkling water, store closes at 5, not much time. Hate to give up my station on this grandiloquent 4th Floor. But then I think about something, and another something, all like varied drum hits on an odd-sounding snare: Why complicate when I’m trying to consolidate? Why take on additional assignments, of any Literary, journalistic or professional shape and scape?
I’m rising and leaving. I need a water, and time in that adjunct office, time to collect and take myself through the lecture I have written, yes very much written, and planned for 6PM. Tomorrow at winery and I don’t know what I’ll be thinking and imaginatively deconstructing in my sight. That drive and that mountain, and that cave system sang something I’ve never tasted and now I’m in a carouseling composition. Hydrate, wait, precipitate…

In office, or office for all of us, which doesn’t much an office make. Sparkling water, lemon, bought two, other in freezer so chilled to my kingly liking for class. Only thing left to do, print poem, plan and lecture.. later post to blog. And I’ll do later as there may be something I want to add– want to try this new approach, incorporate during-class adds when I get home to post, show the students more the process, my process. Like with wine, all the makers have their methodology and precision theologies.. so the wine is its ‘best’. And I want tonight’s lecture to be even more sterling and shining, beaming than last night’s if that’s at all possible. The caffeine from the 4 shots still much in my makeup.
This prose perpetuity, much my preferred poison. And on the drive to Pride I saw what I really want, in this greatest of consolidations.. my pages sold, me traveling with the reads of certain texts, independent lecturer and writer and speaker.. auditoriums assailed and meddled and marauded by those wanting to hear my words and listen to my reads, not that they’re the right way to read a text, just a new one. My socratic practice all over this country’s map, and elsewhere; France like the owner’s brother today, who also happens to be the CEO.. so interesting a man, everything he’s done and what he still does. And on the ride back all this and milieus more, new scenes and settings and senses, stimuli for me, the writer and Beat and skating back and forth for ideas, and the property today, that new songset, finally me one, more, gifted.
Refusing to be a beat adjunct. That stops. On the drive back I just asked myself, “WHY?” Why do I let them do this to me? The students are my reason for being in that classroom, yes, but the other facets and grindings, my core qualm. I’m just ignoring them, the Them, those devils that have it this way; I write about it and blog and expose everything. Why should I be afraid? Language is on my side; the paginated freedom of this Beat, this Beat and beatness of mine. So beatific!

I start to calm now, sipping this water.. I have enough time to print my pages. I’m so very excited to show up to class as my students do with pages, actual pages! Ready to read! I’ve done my homework, this student! And as I told the Pride pride today, in that cinematic room with the long gothic madera surface, “I teach because I love being a student.” And tonight, in a matter of minutes, 41 precisely, I’ll so show… And so pridefully. There’s nothing wrong with pride or being prideful in something you’ve done, as long as it was done with love, and eagerness to share and help and exchange.. I’m proud of what I’ve written, the lecture and offerings for the evening. And this evening, what I’ll take home, think of while I water our front lawn with a Racer in hand, maybe a glass when inside, some of my Merlot, or the Pinot from Arista, something, something for me, for my writing and the session and shift tomorrow.. Wine at the center of it, its analogy and impact and symbolic Jungian value– Here now.

My use of Time today, evidence I defeated it. I’m not accessible in these sentences, in these streamings of peculiar syntax and diffident punctuation, that too I realized on the mountain, walking through the cave with Tim, and into the Room where I saw Sally; the winemaking sorceress who clearly mentored my sister.. creating then the materialize and actualized bottled content, bound for someone to home take. Her Road, my Road, my new prideful Road and traversing.

(6/16/15)