Farmers sbux. Can’t remember the last time I wrote here. Remodeled now, some older lady sitting down the walk, to my right, complaining to me before I put in my headphones, “I hate this!” she hurled. I went into the laptop keys, removing her from any awareness. Mood this morning, one of building. Everything from blog content, to writing the memoir, to my career as an educator. Just keep moving and don’t stop for anything or anyone. Dad’s reminder the other day, urging me to not stress about my age and rather to just bloody enjoy life: “You’re gonna be 40 in 3 years…” I still hear it and won’t let myself, so I meditate in the reality of getting older, doing whatever I can to build MMC, bx as a blog, and all other ideas I have. Like someone said to me years ago, a fellow entrepreneur, “Cast the biggest net possible.” So that’s hwat I’m doing, only climbing in altitude, not descending even for a minute’s minute minute. People all around me having to work and not, a table with three older gentlemen, I imagine retired, talking about life, some guy one of them saw with a Red Sox cap on. “Are you from Boston?” the man said he asked, “Then he says ‘No, I’m from South Africa.’”. “Maybe he just liked the cap,” one of the other men said. I couldn’t help but think about the world, how many of us there are in it, how little of it I’ve seen, and Collyn the other day telling me about his semester at sea, everything he saw and all the food he tried, all the hikes and views and different neighborhoods, customs, ways.
First sip of a 4shot mocha… Can’t stop even for one slight second, and I’ll tell my students the same: Don’t worry about the grade, don’t worry about anything, just throw yourself to your topic. Let yourself BE your writing, and nothing else. Your ideas are beautiful and they need to be read. Use every second, as this life is so cruelly curt. Just a thought…
Technology giving me shit, so I go back to writing, typing, hurrying through the time I have left. 9:01, giving Self till 9:20, then to Road, up to Geyserville winery. Letting nothing negative in. Which usually is my own thinking.. no, not this morning. Taking Jack to school and after my wife just sending me a photo of him a year or so ago, I know Time doesn’t give a shit about me or my worry of it, my clawing to write from every intricacy and note in its wandering delineation. So I write as much as I can, best I can. Life.. a lifestyle… “A lifestyle of what?” I can just hear someone ask. About being an adjunct, an educator, a writer, a father, a runner (and I PROMISE to run tomorrow, goddamn it!). It’s a lifestyle blog about being the best YOU you can write. And yes, WRITE. There’s no need for moods, I realize 19 days from 37. None at all. I can write the story I want, and I can live that story— running, writing, traveling, living, loving, seeing everything as Art, as a lesson, as education for me, and then those reading my work.
People all around me talking and a young lady to my left on wall cushion or couch, longseat, looking at a laptop, but not writing. I think watching a video. Maybe she’s a student like me, doing some research or watching some ‘Ted Talk’ like ’S’ and ’N’ said yesterday, for their papers. When S said I should be a professor at UC Santa Cruz, I felt a growl of impatience and eagerness in my immediate scene. I’ll write tomorrow’s lectures today, while at the winery when I can. Tomorrow, essentially, is the last day of the term, as next week there’s only the optional meeting on Monday then final submission on Wednesday. So tomorrow is 9th inning, two outs, bases brimming. Going to stress the feel of their essays, like the feeling of this newly remodeled sbux. Remodeled with I’m guessing making the atmosphere better or more enjoyable for customers, much the same an essay is revised or remodeled for reader’s engagement and understanding— I don’t know, the more I think of writing and teaching the more I see a stark parallel with building, construction and habitation of ideas.
9:11AM— UGH, bloody time, slimy miscreant, parasitic pulse… Feel my age, but ignore it. I’m nearly 37, 3 from 40, and with two little beats that need me. Pulling back on yoke, nose up, to stars, and I won’t stall. The climb will be tireless like my caffeinated character, now at these keys.
Two ladies in front of me, meeting for first time, think a business meeting of some kind. Both are smiling and laughing women do, talking nasaly and nodding their heads by syllable, leaning back then toward each other again garnished by another forced smirkchuckle, chortle. One asks the other if she wants a coffee, she says sure, then they move to a more meeting-y table, the tallboy in the corner, by window where you can see the drivethrough cars snake their way tot he speaker, addicts like me— shit, 9:16, no time to edit. Hope no clients read this, and if they do, they see how tireless I am, this writing adjunct, this runnerwriteradjunct… this runningwriterfatheradjuctlover—
I can only be mad. Mad in everything. In how I write, how I read, how I teach, how I live, how I love, how I see, how I meditate. It’s beyond “passion”. Beginning to scoff at that word whenever it’s uttered, as it’s vocalized too bloody much. If you’re so passionate, why do you need to keep telling me you are?
I’m in want of all stories in a concurrent cascade.
I should get up, I know. Go to work, I know.
But my thoughts are their own mobile Pangea, you should know.