Looking through the papers from students this past week I realize as well I’m allotting any energy toward them, the papers, nor them, the students. And I love the students you should know, but today is me, solely me–
I begin writing odd and random poems in the composition book, some that make sense and others that make no sense. That’s just the mood I’m in.
I start with tangential haikus then work into odd sonnets, the spoken word verses that rhyme unexpected and at times overwhelmingly, showing I hope yes a playful relationship with language but as well some handle on it. I don’t know what I’m doing this morning to be honest but I know I quite enjoy it and I continue with it for another hour or so, till I have to get in shower and be, I guess, responsible.
My nephew said something yesterday that hasn’t quite yet released me, “You’re a, you’re a.. special friend to me..”. Not sure how to interpret him in that moment or his words, of if it’s even to be interpreted, but it sticks with me. That my character and place in his story has value, some gravity or impact. I forget about everything ‘adjunct’ when with him, when listening to his speech and seeing the ease of his amusement in things I otherwise pass, have already devalued in my sight. Joyce makes me forget about the work and the having to work, the papers and the driving. I could write a novel just on him, maybe… and if I had a son, or daughter, imagine what I could and would write, have a family business, a vineyard and winery, my true end game. But an empress, and empyrean opposite to further me in such a story, of course missing. I go everywhere in my thoughts and get lost, don’t mind and think of Hemingway and all the traveling he did, Kerouac to and how it aided in everything. I then with punctuate purpose realize my problem. Me. My attitude. The moods that invade every so. So they stop. I make them stop. Or, I will.
Time for day.