A ten mile run, visit to the runner’s store later, I’m at the desk, ready for Composition. Brewed coffee. Already understand I won’t get to many items on the list, and I have to be okay with that. The adjunct with all his papers to grade, grades being due by tonight. How is that enough time to evaluate work thoroughly.. note to myself about educational qualms, what I don’t want in my story, and what not, what be. Overthinking again, I can feel it, hear my inner-assembly chant and raise their hands trying to get my attention but I’m set on my daily thousand, meditating here in the office, organizing maybe a bit. But now I need some coffee. So this is what a day off feels like, I say to my self, before getting up, getting the coffee. How much longer am I to continue with this semester-to-semester balderdash. I set a dat by which it must end. 9/1. Not sure where I came up with that square on the calendar, it just flashed and flurried, fury’d to my forum. Coffee abetting my jazz, jazz from Hutcherson’s crew assisting me in shaking this exhaustion post-10.. What I want from day.. writing, the same directedness and drive I materialized on run I so do with this sitting, and those coming after it. Need to look for a new writing spot today, somewhere, have one in mind but it jostles, jumps, I’m not convinced the Story intends it. I’ll see.
The exhaustion won’t leave me alone, and I don’t intend on sipping the coffee too quick as I don’t want the tiredness to dictate anything in this day. Yes, I expected this after such a testing and trying run, but still I wage a push against. Everything today is music, everything with beat and syncopation of some sort, urging me to be musical more and ready self for readings. Instructing, yes, but more so sharing ideas, offering thoughts, asking readers to consider something new. I’m wandering, I know. I cite the enervation, the run, but I can’t blame it, or me for anything, just write onward, prepare for Summer, sell these offerings, bind them, have something to sell. But that takes money to print them, no? Going to blend the ideas of ‘Alloy’ and ‘Mon Petit Mise’, to form one large collection of memoir’d prose. My life as an adjunct, which now isn’t getting to me as it used to. Why did I let it slither under my skin and lay its bitterness eggs all about my inner surface and circuitry? No value in dwelling on that now, not at all. But I recognize where I was, with attitude and perspective, and it did me no good, not at all, not one small microscopic drop of benefit to complaining and grieving, citing the adjunct plight, the adjunct plight. It’s a war I’ll never win, trying to fight the system which holds adjuncts in place, allows to do nothing but run in circles— or not even any shape, but more like a treadmill, boring, no increase in elevation, just the same. thing. over. over…..
Only 11:20 in the day, and I wonder what I should next do, on list or elseways. Want to get everything off this desk, which IS on the list… Done. Now all the clutter’s on the floor. I’ll deal with it later, over a beer I’m guessing. Now.. what. I should be writing and only writing not worrying about cleanliness of this office, and how the day is just running faster than I did on my 10, even though I averaged 8:44 per mile. Time’s quicker than me, motivated by its own cruelty. Stop complaining! I know, I know… Shower, bookstore, get Jackie’s allergy medicine (also on list), stop at that writing cove for a little composition over a cold Coke. Why not. Maybe a snack, as well. Again, why not. My day off. An adjunct with time to himself, imagine that.
Noisy garbage truck bloody drives by with its squeaky wheels and noisy airy pump sounds, picking up the plastic trash bins, garbage and recycle, one of them (don’t know, too agitated by its music to look), then he drives away. No apology for cutting my concentration and sitting’s serenity as he did. I refocus on Hutcherson, the coffee. Think I need another cup. The 9/1 deadline, going to take it more than “seriously”. I’ll reshape into a worshiper of that date, the date I don’t have these fucking stacks of paper on my office floor, the date where I’m no longer considered a ‘non-essential part’ of the college. Referring back to the definition of ‘adjunct’, of course. We’re considered an ‘other’. Really. You know what, enough on that. Not a battle I can win, nor that I want to win. My Happiness lies in Autonomy, Travel, telling stories of what I see, like Andy taking pictures in Turkey, and all the other places he visits for his material. My material for day, what set me in a new mode of ‘me’, the run. Have to register for a— And that truck returns again. Or a different one. GODDAMNIT. Ignoring it, focusing on the jazz, want another cup of this espresso blend Mom and Dad gifted me for my birthday, couple nights ago. Wow, and there again I’m reminded— the running writer/adjunct/father’s 37. Sulk—
Brewing. Thinking of business ideas, pulling up revised plan I started typing the other day— These caffeinated vents could very much be a prime facet of my character as a writer, my “brand” or whatever, even though I never want to be seen as, talked about, or mentioned in brand-speak. I’m tired of the reduction, frankly. And that’s another impetus if you would behind the 9/1 date. I’m going to write my way out of that state, adjunctdom, and any other simple humdrum task someone even has the thinnest inclination of assigning me. I know what I’m deserving of, and I know what I need for my happy summit, and it’s not found in adjuncting, nor other simple entry-level acts.
Oscar Peterson & Milt Jackson’s “Work Song” plays, just over 30 seconds into track and I’m fearless in a way that will surely produce fruit, more than the vineyard blocks, more than what these other writers and bloggers do. I have to laugh at the “content” of some, and the writing.. don’t even get me started, with its 5th grade consistencies and arrangements. And me, I’m passed over for bloggers or “writers” like this? Yeah, that stops today.
Feel like I could take another 10 miles.