NaNoWriMo rush

My lecture book out, and I re-characterize self and how I “teach”, and what I am determined to mold in my role as a professor.  Forget the adjunct part, completely unimportant and that’s a fucking title THEY gave to me.  But this new ME doesn’t accept it…  So, the word of the day for us in the class, both meetings, is ‘hortatory’, and of course this is selfish of me as I’m constantly in a struggle to talk my Self out of funks and moods and away from the adjunct tears.  But my pedagogy is re-polished and poignant, and encouraging more of creativity than conforming to the course outline and what the school orders us to do.  Today I’m a student in my class.  I’m teaching Me how to read and write with more onus, more confidence and more pervasive conviction.

Having to stretch but not wanting to as I can’t bring myself from these ideas, this thought barbarian or warrior  I am now, at this desk screwed to the wall of the adjunct room.

Out of this office, I have to get out.  Walk around.. I need a break, a breath.  But I’ll do that after these papers are graded, and there’s not that many of them, or not as many as I initially estimated.  And the cold autumn air outside would be good for me, I’m sure.. so, I get up, walk away from the laptop, turn it off and put in bag, done.. relaxed.. getting into professor role, mood and mode, new character new vision new strength.

I never do get out of the office and I finish grading the papers, quickly.  So then I start to plan, offering introductory thoughts on Hemingway before we start reading ‘Feast’.  I start to feel like Hemingway and Hunter S., Kerouac and Faulkner, Plath and Cummings.  I defy everythning and everyone around me, refusing to be minimized in this adjunctedness.  So I write on in my lecture book, and write loudly, circled three times, “defiance”.  How I hope to be, if I’m ever to have children, and even if I don’t and I only have Mr. Joyce as my knighted nephew, I’ll be what I want to be seen as.

“We have an author,” I write, “that has more conviction than most, but somehow demonstrates vulnerability and a certain sensitivity that’s trounced out by boldness, this masculine paradigm.  He writes in discipline as well as in between excesses and indulgences.  He’s proverbially aware of life, death, and their unmistakeable and irrefutable interconnection.  Reading his work, you can see he admires everything around him, everything and everyone.  It’s all material.  It can all be on a page.  Which is similar to the other authors we’ve read but with this author there’s more intensity.  And a stratosphere of more confidence, near cockiness in his compositions.  When reading his sentences, try to determine which clauses convey strength, and which deliver a sense of vulnerability.  This will help determine who and what we’re reading.  I’ve said before that ‘Hem’ is his own genre, one of only a few American authors that have achieved such, I offer.  Similarly, Hemingway wants us to experience truth, the truth of where he is, what he sees, hears, tastes, touches, smells, feels, wonders and loves.  A soldier on the page, in his sentences and in life, while still visibly sensitive, vulnerable, and dare I direct.. ‘feminine’.  Let me know if you see what I see in the Feast.  And if not, what do you see, what are you observing?  Because, quite frankly, this memoir or novel, or just ‘book’, is all about observation, life and appreciating the day.  Appreciating the Feast itself in the savory city of Paris.  Prendre plaisir!”

11:49, and my mood intensifies in expanse and confidence.  Lecture posted and I’m ready, and I think I know just where I’ll start as this new radicalized adjunct.  Starting to feel a pull of hunger, I pack my bag again, Comp Book, laptop, and head for the door.  Walking outside I feel like I’ve been asleep, or jailed, both maybe.  But I keep walking to my car which is schedule to the C Lot, since I’m adjunct and would have to be on a “wait list” if I wanted options neared to where I often teach, here in Emeritus, which is bloody fucking ridiculous.  But I shut myself up, order myself into silence and removal from any negativity.  All of it from the adjunct noose to the Paris Attacks, to pollution the Republicans, even the Dems.. all of it.  Only sun today, and my writing, my teaching, ME.  If there was ever a time where selfishness was warranted for this writer it’d be now.  Today actually, on this walk, walking off the wine and the stress, narrating each step…  “Write…read…French…run…study…teach…inspire…ME…rain…ink…books…wine.”