…when the book is due.. only 7 weeks away, now.  And I’d like to have a copy to sell on the Wednesday of Week 9.  So, then, on a ‘today’.  Come to campus with even more confidence than I did this morning and eager to share it with anyone who will listen, who will read.  Today, I’m not stopping with the coffee drinking.  I’m going to be a hungry, pugnacious writer/journalist/teacher.  If I sleep, I die.  I stop writing which is the same thing.

When I landed in 1610’s space, I went to the front of the classroom and started planning, dividing up the time, the hour & 20 min or so, so I could most optimally use the time, hit certain points and be as organized as I could, can, could, but didn’t.  I wondered and overstepped timelines and borders, but very much kept the discussion in-tow, beginning the meeting with some creative writing sharing in the form of open mic.  I had three readers, seven total volunteers.  Rejecting or rather not calling on the others which I was inclined to do was my first attempt at being disciplined with the time structure.

Before they arrived, the scholars,  I scribbled a page:

thought – ‘my students will always be there for me’.

In the classroom, 1610, seeming like where I live semester to semester, listening to my beats but then turning them off.  I don’t know, just need quiet & I’m not trying to exhibit what kind of music I listen to.  Sipping the coffee & it helps w/the sore throat.  I’m here and I’m in character for them.  Not calling these scholars ‘students’ anymore as I so often feel a student of them.  Just before 7.  No light outside & quiet to the point of hearing the hum of one of the lights above me.  I poise to skirmish with any thing making study strenuous on these scholars.  Me, entirely volatile, this morrow—  Need a trip, need that Newness; travel and a lesson from the planet & the tangled cosmos it holds for those on it walking.  The people I have seen on campus so far,[—]

My transferral of the writing from my unusually meditative morning interrupted by some full-timers or full-time adjuncts and one for-sure full-timer stealing the conference room for a meeting.  “I’m sorry, should I leave?  Are you guys having a meeting?” I ask, sinking my head into my collar.

“We’re having a meeting, but, um, it shouldn’t be a problem,” the FT-er said.

Well, it doesn’t take a behaviorist or linguist or dialogue analyst to clearly conclude that it IS a problem.  The ‘um’, and ‘shouldn’t’.  Yeah, that means it IS.  So I left, with airy dismissive apology, heading to the adjunct cell.  “I’ll just go to the adjunct office,” I said.  And none of them disputed, or even responded, wishing me a nice day or thanking me.  Bloody nothing.  So here I am.  And this is just what the fuck I’m talking about.  There were only four of them.  Could they have held this “meeting” in one of their cozy little decorated offices?  I’m just an adjunct.  At this age.  One aged.  So why should they care?