In conference room, not adjunct cell. Woke feeling Zen, everywhere in my cogitation and composure. So I write with this larger than large coffee and resolve to finish the piece for the New Yorker today, after class which I plan to let out surprisingly early. Not taking wine bar assignment, so I’ll have time to get a haircut, run, be with Emma, help Alice with time so she can do her Fountaingrove stomp with her friend Christine. Things are different today, I know. Piece by piece, get to the Road, and it doesn’t have to be big loud roaring 3,500-word essays. I’m reducing the projected span of the NY article to 1,000 words, maybe a half-ounce pour more. My “style” if I have one is of those explosive and punctuated reflections, not airy long-tongued rants.
Plans change, or just shift.. I’ll write something fictive for the NY-er.. a thousand words on adjuncting, I’ll use what I’ve written and blend it into the new ebb. This morning promises me much.. should go to books store and get an issue of the NY, study it.. only had a bit of the Lancaster Cab last night but it was enough to slow me— fuck, why did I hop off my written wagon? No matter, I’m here at the conference table where these pig full-timers who always just walk past me and the adjuncts, the career adjuncts who have been teaching longer than I (which only proves they’re older, not sharper or more skilled in their lecturing or shaped pedagogy), have to see me. See me writing, scheming with my silent perorations and codas— They know I’m up to something, that I haven’t fallen for the adjunct scam, that I’m spitting out that fucking pill.
6:54, still somewhat early I guess— wrote a bit more in my story for NY— thinking about flash fiction, shorter fiction.. but fiction reaching outward from my memory, days and this Now, my current current of collected life currency. ‘nother full-timer walks in barely says hi then past me.. goddamnit. Again again.. the adjunct ignored.. but I have to laugh, especially how so many of them are quick to tell a new adjunct they meet that THEY are full-time, with the obvious association of guaranteed assignments, not having to drive between two or more campuses. And of course, their office, that cozy little fucking space they can always retreat to, not having to share with however many other teachers, and surely not at this conference table. There was one full-timer who always graded his papers here, right where I now sit and type, one time telling em that he couldn’t grade in his office for some reason, “it’s psychological,” he told me. I thought, “HUH?” Isn’t that part or much of what your office is for? And—
Save it for the story, Mikey…
A poem for the New Yorker as well, no? Yes, I’ll be letting them, my group of fiery students go early so I can work on my REAL work. 7:05— and I’m sorry to keep citing the time, but that’s me, and any adjunct pretty much, always with the digits of day in eyeshot.
Off to class.