After the nap, the tireless writer

and indie prof’ (which now is how I tag myself in my head, somewhat have before but now it’s officially officiated).  Nap was about 90 minutes, probably more than it needed to be, but warranted, think my vessel needed a bit of an extended docking.  In library now, as the shared office was being, well, shared by multiple adjuncts, and the pigfuck full-timers were using my usual spot, the conference table.  All around me, students, quiet, in those isolated rooms with the window so you can see but not hear the activity.  To my left, two girls, using the whiteboard repeatedly (tall blonde girl mostly, while the redhead writes, then talks to blonde when she sits back down).  Other students around me in computer terminals.. I think about my story of course, but I’m tired of doing that.  I’m tired of aiming, tired of envisioning and planning..

Some noise but not much.  The attitude of the library has changed, semester’s inaugural purr has now curled inwardly to a bitterly impatient growl.  That’s the student life.  That’s me, here at this table trying to figure it all out.  Where I’m transferring, where I’ll be img_3203traveling, what’s next, what’s next.  Looking over the verse I wrote this morning in class, one line reading “…sipping stress when I should put it down, net indeed; headturn, left right str8…” All a student’s character and characteristics, always wondering, always struggling, always moving.  My type of student, ME, has to be tireless, and yes I know I took a nap but that was needed, that’s what the body of this author ordered.  I pick my head up and see quiet, hear hunched-over students at the terminals and in the group-work rooms, hurrying to be ready and prepared for whatever deadline.  What is studenthood without the DEADline?  Rush rush rush, then quicker quicker quicker.  A girl walks around, looks at me, sees one of the group rooms with a large glass side that faces the tables in front of me.  She skips over to the door, walks in, away from eyeshot.  And me here at this table convincing myself I’m one of them, with my interpretations on Plath, Kerouac, Poe, Hemingway, and soon someone else.  Poe always toiled with the border of sanity and insanity, favoring insanity.  And I can see why.  You’re freer.  This reminds me of one of my 1A students’ topics, on how authors need insanity for sakes of their craft. My mind stalls for some reason thinking about this, but I bring myself back to the keys, back to studentism.

Hem ordered to write clearly about what hurts.  And what hurts me most, is regularity.  The patternized, the responsible, the predictability.  Tomorrow, at winery, which I love and am so grateful for the pages and images its gifted me, BUT, I know what’s happening tomorrow.  It’s connected with a time, and that’s what a sore of sorts.  Contradictory to freedom.  I’ll make an argument out of this, my life, returning to studentry.  My thesis?  ‘Freedom is more than needed, it’s all there is for writers like me.’

You should see me now, at this table with my Composition Book open and my mocha, phone and plugged-in laptop.  I’m a student again.  Should …  NO, just do.  Nearly 3:30, should go get a water from the bookstore before class as I usually do.  Water sounds terrific at this point in the writer’s day, a bit dehydrated from nap and now I sip this coffee like it’s water after a horrible high-desert hike.  Slow, I tell myself.  When home tonight, no sleep till 12AM.  Don’t get stressed about the instant immersion into ‘dad mode’, scribble in a Comp Book.. no wine, get 7UP or water, put Self in a position to wake at 4.  I have deadlines.. papers to finish, three that I can think of right now, on top of a book.  And edit those first pages of the adjunct book.  Have to radically consolidate, that’s the key.  Or one of them.

First place I’m hoping to travel to:  NEW. YORK.

Always wanted to go, and I know the material there for a writer is unquantifiable.  The streets, the taxis, food, buildings.  Lecturing at NYU, or Rutgers (oh, that’s Jersey), or Columbia…  Just dreaming, watching all these students work.  But the dreaming has to stop.  I’ve reached that point in my life.  Going to start with 500-word lectures, or mini-papers.  Disseminate those on this blog and elsewhere.  The nap was just what I needed, now feeling this zenful fire in all my wires.  The jazz as well helps, strings being plucked; I’m playing, and listening.  Duality delicious, scholastic sensibility in me, in everything I see, everything’s a topic.