freewrite 2/22/16

In adjunct cell.  Submitted times to winery and started other postgrad app.  Thinking of doing a Master’s in Ed alongside the cred’.. can I do that?  I’ll tomorrow learn, having an appt with a counselor.. wow, when was the last time I did that?  I sound like one of my students, which makes me smile, and feel like one of them, a student, something the wine industry can never do, convey this feeling.  Yes you learn, but about wine.  And wine is only so diverse, only as varietal names, and the further you “study” and sip, the more your mind is bent around and by the effects of what you consume.  But no more of that.

I don’t want wine in this sitting, in this office with me.

Carpe journal next to me, coffee (a large from the cafeteria), and more imagination and certainty that I need to return to SSU, a student, learning how to better teach and become entombed in the Philosophies of Education, what I can do with it all and forever be a student.

Wondering if I should run after this “office hour”. Just some speedwork on the tread.  Or take a nap.  This morning waiting for my mocha all I could think about was returning to the sheets, my promising and poetically textured pillow.  I don’t know what to do, just write, with the Carpe journal Mom & Dad got me at left— more poetry, poems to sell, vend in little pamphlets to augment this too-separated adjunct “income”, and the winery pay which is anything but overwhelming..  Engaging in exercised, poems written in quick flurries— had this idea walking up the Emeritus steps this morning, to ‘5’.  And I feel tired again…  But I sip the Sumatra and hope it works, hope it gets angry with me and say something like “Stop fucking whining and WRITE!…And sell it!  DON’T WRITE FOR FREE!”  I should heed this hypothetical, follow and listen to this music, get to the Road.  Running out of meditations, and even more immediately visible, TIME.  Already Feb’s end.

Just wrote a poem in a minute.  One I WILL sell.  Want to read more.. how ‘bout I begin every class with a reading of something, show them that I’m writing alongside them.  Not to boast or show off, but truly do as I teach.  Show I can DO and not just TEACH.  That, to me, shows mastery of education, educatING.

Coffee’s working, I think.  But the nap still sounds incredible.  But then I wouldn’t be writing.  Fuck I overthink everything.  How ‘bout I don’t think at all and just write, do, teach and pursue..  thinking in musicality’s duality, tangible oration and physicality—  this is the poet surfacing, purported purpose with my lady lazarus—

I understand I’m not making much sense at the end of that paragraph, but the coffee orders me to poetry.. MY word, my singularizing and distinguishing consistency is and always will be VERSE.



Educating myself, an awareness I’ve never before held or acknowledged.


Maybe this is maturity.