Writer.  Father.  Adjunct.  Awake.  And I’ll type till I’m stopped.. not awake when I wanted, but that’s not a shock. In fact now I just laugh.  In fact now I embrace it.  I’m meant to write during day, at night.  The morning has a problem with me typing during its atmospheres and consistencies.  OR, it’s a treat of sorts for the writer, something I’m gifted every-so-often, not meant to happen all the time.  And that’s fine I guess, but I want to be more like Morrison, wake to work on my books.  I don’t care what the day wants—   I have wants for my babies and family and Self and that takes the most poignant of precedences.  Quiet—  and it’s funny how fast that fades for the writer-father, but of course I wouldn’t have it any other way as these wee beats are my best teachers in so many respects and regards and I need to take more notes, I know.  With Mom & Dad coming over tonight, I’ll have even less time to write.  So when do I?  After they leave?  Maybe another decaf & cookies session, stay up late like a student finishing some papers and collect thoughts for blogs & books— time, attacking, so I in the blinks strategize, map out, plan, visualize the sequence.  The “stress” isn’t stress at all.  It’s a boon.  Helping the running-writer-father-adjunct with accuracy and priority, and I think even maturity.  Sipping coffee I made last night from tumbler, cold, but I don’t care it’s working.  The day to be busy, Saturday at a winery of course.  Today can be arranged, again, into little notes and bits of dialogue, like yesterday when the Texas guy says, after I asked if he wanted to do a tasting: “Oh, I’m a drinker, not that much a taster.” But, then I think, don’t write, just live, snap shots when you can.  Put the day assembled usefully and therapeutically like a photo essay, or collective standalone of individual moments, stills, shots, something.  Embrace it for the cosmically lovely hodgepodge it is.  My style of writing I’m sure coalesces and commingles with such more optimally.  See how many misspellings I’m committing right now and I don’t care, I need to write before I’m interrupted, before my morning meditation is torn like a draft of a tireless but drained student now around Week 16, 17.

Session not torn but changed by little Emma being brought down here with me.  My youngest professor, teaching me to not worry so goddamn much and to just smile.  And now, she just smiles at me and swats at the swinging monkey and koala.  She swings fast then stops to see if I’m looking, and I am—  She holds onto the monkey and stares at him.  What she’s now teaching me, aside from not caring so goddamn much about trivial shit, is to just play, have fun, with EVERYTHING.  She smiles at me with the monkey in her hand, the tosses it to her left, watching it swing.  For me, today, I deal with life with playful artistic effort—  ten standalone written pieces, of any length.

Noe, she studies the monkey, every part of his smile and ear shape, tosses it again.  Can hear my son, little Kerouac, the 4 year-old china shop bull.  He’s on his way.  Now the scene will drastically change.  The older professor, one more challenging and unpredictable.  He teaches patience and zen practice by offering the opposite, seeing how I’ll respond and deal with it, him.  His class, I probably have a C up to this point.  And Emma’s, I think a B, maybe B+.  Jackie says, “I’m coming down, too,” leaning his head over the stairs border.  Have to relocate to kitchen island.  Will I have time to edit?  Post to bx?  Can I write at sbux?  When does the mother-in-law get here?  See?  I’m overthinking, something Professor Emma urges me not to do.  And I can already feel the writing father tense with Kerouac getting closer, something he teaches against.  If this were a quiz, or two individual quizzes, I’ve bombed both.

Both professors down here with me, in their respective lectures and me noting my reaction to both— calm, their interests; Emma, her hands and Jack, his cars and the Spiderman cartoon.  He continues to demand my attention and I stop typing, interrupted no but contributed to.  He points out things about the cartoon, what the characters are doing and what they’re saying, “Look, Dada, look!” Emma tries to turn around and look, steal lecture ideas from her partnering rival prof’.  And I, the student-parent-smitten-one, just observes.  I’m not overthinking what’s happening in front of me, just enjoying.  That’s a point in the lecture they both intend, life.  Enjoy it.  Write it all.  Make it whatever I want.  Emma again grips the monkey, studies more intently, makes a couple sounds at her brother, then looks back at me, continues with her lecture.  Today I’m already ahead, need a new little notebook for all I’m to write.  OR, I could be on zero budget and just use the back side of the little pages I already have.  That’s what a real student would do, be on the most coherent and contained, stressing of budgets (beneficially stressing, like with some vines).  FIRST NOTE:  combat challenge and stress with ART; everything is material.. from setting up the tables yesterday, even wiping off the bird shit, to helping the Texan, to the four at the end of the day from somewhere around Modesto.  With these newer insights and understandings, and my professors right around the laptop atop my legs, I’m awake, ready for the day.  Ready for my travels, for any stress.  As, as they’ve both me instructed, stress isn’t stress.  It’s energy, momentum.  It’s for me, for the writing, the books, the adjunct role I’m reshaping.  Student, of the moments in days, and I note everything—

JACK:  loving superhero cartoons, their voices, character interaction

EMMA:  watching her brother, studying him, making Jack the head, senior prof’…

ME:  taking notes, learning how to be more me, a better ME, a more artful and consistent ME.

The best two classes I’ve ever taken, but I could be doing better.  “Study more!” I tell myself.