The library.  Part of

IMG_6716-0me of course wanted to just fly there as soon as I touched down on campus, just before 4:30, but I needed the quiet of this adjunct hole.  Yes that’s ironic I guess in someway, me resisting the romantic temptation of the library, of course being surrounded by books and students and me feeling more like a scholar and student, but I needed the quiet, time with my words and inner reverberations.  Sipping my sparkling lime water, poison of choice of later in this Summer Term…  Still feel remarkable to write freely, having spent the entire day on those articles.  And the idea of starting a new blog.. no, I thought, “Work with what you have.” A new blog is nowhere to be found in my budget.  And I know right now I should be writing a MOCK SOMM piece.. maybe I will in a minute before preparing for class, but I just wanted to be free, liberated in the characters I punch to page.  And I have it, but I need music– still feel like I feel the caffeine from earlier, or is it the result of the shower, or this water, or just my muffling of the articles, the squelching of their stressing me, my vanquishing of them, and any other thought stressing the writer.  Music cued, and very much aligned with my mood; chilled, echoing, like I’m in some hotel lobby writing, sipping some wine or a glass of sparkling.. sparkling wine, I intend.  And I write on knowing I’m going to have another amazing class this evening. It can only be that way, and only for me, and my story, my Adjunct War– one covert and planned and inthemoment; my own beat and feeling in this shared office, but I share with no one else now; no other adjunct appears to be as desperate as I taking this 6PM 100 section.  But I have not a morsel or even grain of regret.  Not now or ever.  Going to blog the class, write what I’ll say IMG_6718beforehand, starting my types at 5, luminously, and with peculiar voracity.  Now I have to catch up with the words I would have type if I hadn’t checked my goddamn email, on that goddamn phone– so I write for this goddamn blog and I wonder what I would be writing if I were in a hotel right now, and where, let’s say Florida; have always wanted to go, stay in a hotel by the beach, on a relatively elevated floor, and just stare out at the ocean and note singular words and thoughts, sensations of the oceanic grip: soft, salt, heavy air, warmth, hug, breathe, sip, pages blown by this new atmosphere, left, I flip them back right.  I crawl to concentrate, mind going everywhere, but I need be linear in this sitting, and I walk away with what?:  Even more direness to my sittings.  And I’m thinking of wide dissemination, Self-publishing on a level that has never been seen or even thought of; my words, my inscrutable stationing in this moment, imagining what else there is, and how, and when.  The ‘when’ feels like the most essential and awaited portion of my equation, the one I’ve been trying to solve, well.. officially, since I graduated SSU in mid ’01.  Over 14 years ago, and I’m still with my protractor, numbers and measurements and trying over and over to make the solutions seamless.  No.  Not yet.

IMG_67174:49.. taking out the book, readying myself for lecture writing and some direction for tonight’s class.  “And that’s it!” I think to myself, “Direction!” Take the word apart, bit by bit and idea by idea, connected word by connected word.  What does direction do to a character…  Good question, what direction do I have and what is it, or lack of ‘it’, doing to me?  Perceptive stall, so I get nowhere with my thoughts and trying to solve.. was never good at Math, obviously, or even slightly fluent.  I actually have dreams, not so much nightmares.. just unpleasant and angst-angled dreams, of being in a math class, studying or not studying and having a test coming up, one that I didn’t take or maybe did and almost sure I bombed, and worried about my final grade in the class.  But I’m relaxed now.  And like that, like an unexpected storm, or earthquake–the big ONE, the one everyone’s been brought up fearing as a Californian–it hits, slams, pulls and shakes and pushes me to a new idea, but I can’t act too quick I don’t think: a stage play.  Short, maybe 10-15 pages.. but what would that do, I think.  I’m everywhere, this has to be caffeine.. but I finished that mocha well over 2 hours ago.  The water?  Something in the water.. ha ha…..  I don’t know, but I feel something now, just to write and with no constriction and just freely like the novel.  So then yeah… no stage play.  A novel, the Massamen novel, go back to it, tomorrow, after your run that you have planned for the mother-in-law hour (4:45AM or so).  If I run early, and quick, I may get back in time for 500 words, 300 at the very least.  Which I’d take, happily.  Little Kerouac this morning woke just after 6, giving the beat father very much a run as I was in quite the sleep from my late night of writing, prior.  And with still no coffee in the Autumn Walk base, it was challenging for me to keep with his rile, his speed and unpredictable attention and passion shifts.  I stood, however, for his challenge and raced nature.  And now I start to slow… if there was still a caffeine touch in my circulation, somewhere, I assure its departure, now.  May have enough time for a coffee run, across the street to that place.. what is it called, “My Friend Joe’s” or something odd..?  The adjunct always looking at the clock, Time his ever-foe but what can he do but own the moment– and in doing so I vote no, no against the caffeine craving and dependency.  I won’t let it slow me a second time today.

(6/18/15)

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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