…And Monday will see the most enveloping and impassioned talks ever from me. The students won’t know what hit them. I’ll even get into some rubric discussion, how I’m evaluating their work and general presence in the class. Just honestly, I’ll do so, not to bring negative attention to any one student although I’m sure some will feel that way, and what they’ll feel is only sharp and harsh self-awareness.
I’m quite proud of my progress, I must say with today, this morning, how I felt waking up and only writing all those sketches on a couple humble cups of coffee and this microscopic mocha. I come across some older writing, just roaming around this laptop, some writings I did in the parking lot of the Kenwood Market, before going to work at the winery. Seems like forever ago, and when I read how visibly unhappy, I’d say miserable really, I was there I feel shame, and a very presented form of shame, like a fault or flaw in my character. Life is far too short to ever feel like that, I now meditate and wildly realize.
ITEM – No fear. Just live.
Yes. From all days and onward. This morning, I’ve been more alive and more accepting of a challenge, something I didn’t want to do, than I ever have, or that I can remember. I’m a writer, a “professional” writer as they’ve been introducing me at the office, which I’m not sure I like. I just write. That’s it. When you call me a “professional” writer that insinuates a job title, some clinical coat that isn’t anywhere needed or instrumental in producing more convincing writing.
I look around the shop, people with their coffees on laptops, studying and talking when they should be studying.. I become infatuated with the role of a student, their priorities and deadlines, their studies and growth and notebooks out on their tables when they sit, their raised hands.. am I becoming more a “professor”? Did this writing assignment do this? Should I get a PhD? “Not that thought again!” I say to myself. Maybe later, maybe.. I don’t need one now. All I need is time to read and write, react to what I ready. Study my focus authors like Plath and Kerouac, Hemingway and Faulkner, Thompson… To be frank, I can’t remember the last time I sat for this long and wrote. I know that’s pitiful, being a “professional” writer, but I now see this, and the benefits unexpected of the growers assignment. Making severe headway with my writing life, my teaching life, with prose and poem and narrative and my wined story. Feel like I should dart to downtown and find the first sparkling producer I can to celebrate, taste and toast with somebody, but je ne peux pas. I haven’t even risen to use the restroom.. I apologize for going on about this but this is truly remarkable to me. In this same chair, writing, for close to FIVE hours. And I could push it to six if I wanted to, but I should be going.
To the next song.