Today, Three Pages, and with a Focus. (excerpt, no edits)

…Hemingway and Joyce and Plath  never had blogs of course so why do I place so much in this?  I have to, not second-guessing Self anymore, just doing.  The room and building and halls on the other side of this door, quieter than I’ve ever heard them.  For me, I’m thinking, or make myself think; the day wants the most monstrous and mammoth of writing from me.  And today.  Today has to distinguish itself in a totem that the others have not… would love a thesaurus, new words.. but where.. not one on the shelf above me, so where.  I know.. the internet.  But I don’t want to cherrypick like that, or from my head even, just let honest prose project from my fingers, their tips and touch-manners.  Now I hear doors, doors (symbol obviated), and thinking like an adjunct, about my checking account and the other job I have and how else I can make money, and the blog I started in being an adjunct for now over ten years (dubbed it ‘another added adjunct’).  Thinking maybe I should keep it, and the other blogs, just don’t add anything new.  The blogs serve as compartments or contained dimensions of my contiguous and consistent dimension— do I start one for running as well?  No.  Again, nothing new.  FOCUS.  6:49.. want to be in room AT seven, to plan and select which poems to talk about, creative writing ideas, the reset of the semester that I’ll keep in my own thinking.  Such pedagogical freedom you can’t have at the high school level.  I just can’t see it, me in a high school classroom, and the disciplinary facet to such a job post.  College.. teaching at Stanford.  What happened to that.  Nothing.  I’m still headed there.  Hope the Craft doesn’t let me separate even for a second from this momentum, this motivation and intrinsic and elemental fire I’m experiencing.

Writing the day; write till seven then head for room 1610.  They’ll have papers to submit today, I’ll hand back the ones for students who weren’t there on Monday, hand around after dismissing them early, tell them to go find inspiration, write alongside Sylvia, poetry or prose, she would want you to feel comfortable writing how you wish…  Now the fire expands from this desk in the adjunct cell to the visions of a traveling Mike which is my apexing aim.  But how I get there, and how I get there by semester’s end which was and is my intent, first trip being somewhere on the East Coast, to DC maybe or NYC, Boston or CT.  Anywhere, just to be on the Road as so many of my wine industry acquaintances be and boast by some medium, pictures and short utterances which blend humor and assurance.  One such wine character now is at some wine conference or symposium in England, representing her family’s label.  Then I think ‘that should be’.  Well, if I FOCUSED more with these pages and me outside the pages, I perhaps would.  I’ll center myself in the garage, at the workbench with those old writings.  And build something with those nearly-forgotten pages.

7AM.  I know, I should leave, I should jet to 160 but I need a thousand words, just a 1 and three 0’s, or a couple mots more.  Professors closing and opening doors in the offices around this one, what are they doing, what do they teach, and why did they settle on SRJC?  Not that this is a poor school, but why not higher?  Why not a university?  Stanford or Harvard, SSU or SF State?  Why the JC?  Again, no denigration, just curious.  Stanford still in my sights.. and how to get there, self-publish, defy publishing consistencies…