Writing freely this last day at Solano.  My “absentee form” which the twit clerk said was so crucial I submit today has been turned in, and when I enter the office I find she’s called in sick for the day, at which I have to snicker a bit.  In the adjunct lounge, not hole, for the last time this term.  Ms. Emma here in 5 days to the point, and me writing faster and with more fire and fury than I ever have, right now and yes I could use more caffeine and I probably could zoom to the caf’ and get a cup, but I’m writing from organic throws.  I’ve made the vow to start my keeping of the standalone piece list, today, right after I post this small snapshot of my life and writing steps this term and after, before, now in the twirling immediacy of my druthers and beat disposition.

Nothing in this room, but then my librarian friend, ‘Q’, pushes the code on the door from his side, where his office is, and he enters to use the restroom, walking quickly past me and I remember the rain on the way here, not as much as they said–  I’m at one of those walls, goddamnit.  So what do I do but try and write through it, wait for the growers check to FINALLY arrive, just re-invoiced them.  Life as a writer, having to make material and content and stories out of everything, and now, as a writer who teaches, at the last day of term I try and force myself to be so reflective and meditative in this last day but I can’t.  I guess there’s no big deal to it.  “So what?” one part of my head says.  Not sure I agree, but here I am, after all the miserable drives out here and the unprofessional talk from that barnacle admin in the Humanities office, and the even more ill-bred dewberry of a dean… over.  It’s over, this term.  No more out here.  No more of 12 to Arnold to Leveroni to Napa to 12 to 29 to that ‘Canyon’ road to 80– shut.  Closed.  Dispelled from this writer’s day.

Behind him, he locks the door.  As do I, having done my business here at Solano, on Suisun Valley Road, and they’ve treated me like what goes into that bowl.  But it’s done.  And all knobs behind me turned harshly.  You know, now I do see this as somewhat of a deal.  All papers handed back, the students appear happy, and I leave in well-standing with them.  And if honesty’s still valued, or if anyone wants an adjunct’s conception of a term–  The students are all that matter to me; their experience, what they walk away with, and how they continue in their chapters.  I hope they write, and so do freely and with no knots around their pieces, pages, or thoughts that tumble into compiled pages. 

I hope they open and shut doors as they wish to and not as someone else has drawn.