1,000 words — barrel 6

Going at a blueberry muffin here in the SRJC library, 9:24, time.  The earliest I’ve been here all semester.  This is what the story demanded so I answered, driving straight here after taking Jackie to school.  On my right, some books–  But I can’t just write freely this morning, I need objectives, some line of time, timing– so, now till 10AM, flurry in prose in this journal, discussing and deciding my academic/student life, both Literature and wine.  10-11, read and react to one of your reading/research projects (Plath’s entries, Bell Jar, Hem’s ‘Feast’, or Kerouac’s ‘Sea/Brother’).  I’m beginning a reading journal just as I urge the students– in fact, let it here be decided I start with Plath’s books.. getting deeper into the idea of WHAT she is rather than who.  11-12:30, prep for class, meaning grading and lecture notes, all.  The materialization of the writer/professor/student– more a student/writer than “professor” or “teacher”.  Then to class eager to share the ideas, the findings, the insights on her work.  Be a true lecturer, writer, academic.  An “academic” to me is one who enjoys the learning, not really possessing a drive or inner demand to teach but to simply share his love of learning and writing, research and all aligned.

The library seems to be full, nearly heaping with students, working on papers and projects at this past-halfway point in the term.  Again, I want to be more one of them than some full-timer thinking he knows everything– distract by an email I had to send to a fulltimer up at Mendo– and this goddamn table keeps chirping at me, squeaking but it does sound more like a chirp.  I’m not dissuaded.. I move down right, pushing my books, pulling my muffin and coffee and phone closer, and… no squeaks.  Or at least not as loud.  Week 10, nearly done.  12 has always been the reassuring week for me, that number telling me there’s light at term’s tunneling end, then showing such luminary on that week’s last day.  And I grow tired of my writing and thinking, this room and this bloody table, so I do something crazy– forget I’m a teacher here.  And am I?  Do I really “teach” anything?  Like I said earlier, I share ideas but that doesn’t necessarily make me an educator.  And do I even want to educate?  Maybe it’s true, all I want to do is share my ideas and thoughts on literature, wine, them separate and together.  14 minutes more in my place here in the journal.  Feel myself with a bit of a bug, throat and cough, and tired, which is odd as I slept fine last night.  Writing goals down– or more ‘objectives’ than GOALS.  Not fond of the word, “goal”.  Reminds me of soccer, which I don’t have a problem with but it trivializes the thought and concept, I think, of having a goal or objective, or aim of some kind.  Now I don’t know what I’m writing, but I have to stay strong for class, keep drinking this coffee hoping it helps, helps the writing and the reading– heard my neighbor’s daughter last night say, from the porch where she was seemingly reading a book, ‘Mockingbird’ by Lee, blaring, “I hate reading…” Then she yelled out to one of Alice’s friends, neighbors to everyone on Autumn Walk, if there was a way to get it “on tape”, or find it on YouTube.  I have no comment, really, other than this is the student culture of the day, the idle nature and minimization of everything…

Am I sick?  Should I go home?  Hate feeling tired like this, and I was looking so much forward to coming to campus so early, rushing to the library, writing and reading and prepping for class–  The table starts chirping again and I get annoyed, rub my left eye with my left palm, look at the book cover, right, Ms. Plath smiling at someone, rose in front of her.  And with how she composed herself in the quaking of all her pain, I have to do the same.  My poetry collection due in 8 days, ‘Ocular Total’, I dubbing it for now.  The title could change but I’m estimating it’ll remain.  Again trying to snap Self from this lull and sickly crash, if I am sick but I’m pretty sure I have whatever Jackie and Alice had, I brandish my Composition Book, a pen from bag, think of my students and how even the poorest performing bring themselves to type, and PRINT, SUBMIT something.  I learn from it and so do, too.

Muffin gone, and I only have 2 minutes in this part of the schedule– oh what do I do?  I know a nap at home and rest will excommunicate whatever this is pulling at my ardency.  A student sits across the floor from me in a singular sofa, peering down at her binder, notes and a book.  That’s what I want, that life, the study and submission of effort and recording of findings, that’s what I need to lock in my vision.  Being a student.. a student.. studying.. 10:01– late for my study date with Self– laptop closing.

And yes, I came home to sleep.  So I’m going upstairs to sleep– and when awake again I’ll answer the different thoughts I had whilst driving home, left on Guerneville or Steele or whatever street:  print pages and submit them.  “What?” I thought.  “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

So I will when awake, singularize and consolidate and simplify in a way I never have, getting me to the Road and away from the monotony like the dog I hear barking somewhere right, down the street.

Up from mid-afternoon rest, waiting for Alice and J to be back home.. gathered all the Comp Books I could find.. and disgusted.. too many which indicates and emphasizes my scattered nature.. so, I put everything in the Fall 2015 Book.  Tonight I’ll be grading and beginning my close of the semester, cleaning up this home study and prepping for tomorrow.  I have no intention, NONE, of going to that adjunct hole before class.  I’ll be at the Starbuck down the Road and collect Self, write, there.

It truly bothers me, staring at this stack of Composition books.  I’ll change, I tell myself, I’ll change.  Be more succinct and singularized.  -10/21/15