Announcer Who

And, class out.  Teaching done for the week—  Or not.  I’ll upload a bizarre amount of thoughts and content and prompts to the blog.  Overhear a student in the office of one of these “instructors” getting scolded by his “teacher”— “You’ve been slacking off…I’ve given you a great deal of slack…I think the best thing to do is…” I stop listening.

So far today, I have it scored 16-3, ME.  Been quite mellow, I must say.  Part of me wants not to write right now, but the other is one writing this, now.  I need this quiet and this meditation before going home, before attiring myself in Dad-mind.

No run today, but a nap, 45 minutes or so.  Not nearly enough.  Needed another coffee when I arrived on campus.  Feel like I could use one now, but the writerfatheradjunct says no, “No more coffee.” I need sleep tonight and anymore caffeine will hinder, well, everything.  I’ll wake early tomorrow and run, or workout, do something for the writerfatheradjunct’s health.

So silent in Emeritus, now.  No student voices, no condescending instructor/teacher/“professor” ones—  An old man, adjunct walks into this conference room and into the mailroom.  Checks his slot and sees nothing in there.  This man looks beat and tired if I’ve seen an adjunct so.  If I live to that age, which I guess must be mid to late 60s (has to be!), I will be so removed from this adjunct life…   I have time to collect here, in the room where so very important meetings take place and interviews, discussions about whatever the full-timers discuss.  And now the room is MINE.  I’m writing in the room, which is mine.  They’re nowhere, not here.  I’m not moving.  This room… is. MINE.

OH!  I forgot to get that legal pad from the mailroom, start my inventory sheet.  This is a business, remember Mikey?  I’m writing myself up.. reprimand.. REP-RI-MAND, man!!!

Only 20 minutes left in this time that is mine.  So I’ll log today’s pieces (even the ‘two haiku review’ of the ’12 Pride Cabernet I typed earlier on phone and posted to blog) later, later tonight at home, sipping a 7UP.  Tonight, no wine.  No beer.  Have to have that early time in mind, running for an hour or so.  Or writing— NO, you need to run.  Forcing myself back into the runner’s ways, the half-marathons, meet with other runners and hear their stories, even try trail running which I utterly loathe.  Change.. change!  And write every minute of it.. record EVERYTHING.  Okay, no more capital abuse, avowed.

I can’t enough praise the peace of this room.  How I’m not interrupted.  Not by a thing.  Not anyone.  Just me with these books on the shelves and the computers, 3 total and all off.  Think I hear someone talking down the hall but they’re on a convenient mute.  They’re there but not, not at all.  I find myself tessellating across the page and my own thoughts, dreams of the Road, traveling for wine and writing and everything I want to write about.. and it’s not really that much about writing as it is living, having a life worthy of sentences, paragraphs and memoirism.  In a minute I’ll send an email to the students notifying them of the blog posts, and how they will keep coming.  Have to maintain the conversations, keep them in their tireless streamings and intended cavalcade.

Feel my tired self devolving more and more into a similarity with this morning’s Mike.  Which I don’t like.  Time for a stop, maybe.  Or break.  Oui, une pause—

(3/30/16)