…prepare for class– my mind everywhere, this is what the cell does to you, you adjunct– part-timer not valued, part of the scam but maybe now I’m scamming them, right? That’s what I tell myself, but the story keeps going into new articles and facets and dimensional waves till I crash on some reflective shore with a notebook, a Composition Book that I only hope gets looked at, if not by a publisher or reader then me, or Mom.
Jazz.. want to write poetry, and only have these items and corners in this adjunct cell for composition, and it probably won’t come out a bit composed, not at all. Need a full day to write, but when will I get that? Not any time soon, much I’m working. SO, I have to get up earlier, much earlier.. less wine. Although, last night I only had one glass of that Paso Cab, which was quite forceful with its dark texture, presence and call.
Mocha murdered, now my water gone. Good I bought three from Michelle…
Need some air, some breathing outside– looking up, at the shelf just above this surface, old textbooks, and to the left, a small can of Squirt a student last Summer gave me. Can’t believe that’s still here. But I look at the texts again, each a ‘How to Write’ text, or ‘what you should do while you read’, something of either, or both.. they all know, they all have the answers, so do teachers even teach if they rely on these feeble-thinking texts? Their voice, or instruction, pedagogy or rhetoric, not at all sly, or even fruitful in my mind, just rehearsed, and constructed, built to sell; a piece of teaching merchandise.
Distracted by pictures of my son, on the carousel, and on the little train he rode, and of him with his mama and I. There’s no greater push than him, and pull from his words, toward him and his carefree disposition and character I only wish I could partially mimic..
Still no response from client. So I should treat myself to a walk, and a snack.. yes, I need to eat as my wife tells me but then I remember Hem telling me “Hunger’s a good discipline”. So what should I do? Wish I knew. And what is it with me not indenting anymore? I blame the blog, and the habits it brings with it.. and 3 pages for the day, I have to, everyday and for the rest of my life, not just some 100 days of it nonsense, no, everyday! SO I’ll be outside for my treat of fresh air and some salty treat to pair with the next water, from the book store, where I’ll see Michelle again and I’m sure she’ll have the author’s name this time, and the perfect phrasing she wants to convey. But not before I touch page 3. And what if this is a new code for bottledaux. 3 pages. Everyday. How many can say such, writers or otherwise? How many have three pages to their personified page tower, per day? Not many. Yes, Kerouac, Hem, Dostoevsky maybe.. and now me. Am I in their lineup, league? Yes I’d like to think so. With three pages I will be. Each day its own standalone short, or novelette-ette-ette. And keep writing in this cell, the adjunct’s chamber for whatever they want. Some grade, some fill out FT applications at colleges in regions I would never think to live, and then some go to their social media pages, but I write and listen to this jazz and think again of my vineyard-farm, my little beats playing, Alice and I sipping more than likely sparkling wine from somewhere in Carneros or Anderson Valley, and just smiling at each other, “We’r finally here,” we both think, but don’t need to say. And that’s closer than I realize, I realize, but the trumpet and snare, light, tell me to just focus on this sentence, and the next.
Back from walk, getting snack, and talking on the phone to an old friend who started his own label, is experiencing a couple stalls, some exhaustion and frustration it sounded like, and just an overall reconsideration of what he started, maybe, it sounded. Opened my second water, and it’s bloody flat. Little to no bubbles, just flat lemon water. Getting closer to when I have to be in the classroom. Plan. Get everything together and in–