Every Moment Is A Standalone Piece

img_9893An idea I share with my students, and after the wine I had tonight I know this to be very much a punctuated truth.  Refusing to clock-out till 12AM, and I look at my phone and the time taunts me.  But it as well just decides to be my most amiable of allies.  It reminds me, “I’m not here forever, so keep writing, writer!” Part of me wants to be resentful of time and venomous toward its most innate functionality but I can’t.  The sovereign page is the moment I’m in, and I have to seize it, force myself toward it, forward in it.  Even in this late hour.  Writing anymore, as I age and progress in the story hones me to a fruitfully creative homeostasis.  One I’m not used to.  And in these final 2016 days I grow in the promise of more scenic and secure sentence sensibilities.

The moment, or this moment, is me, here, on the floor writing when I know I should be reading and preparing for the next semester— my next brick-and-mortar teaching effort on the SRJC campus and for what— well, for them, my lovely and promised, prolific students who are worked to a dry and emaciated tiredness but still keep in their tank-roll to their respective goals.  Part of me’s a teacher, while most of me curtly and candidly aims to remain a student— the one in-book always and scribbling my Composition Book like a maniacal machine eager for knowledge.  I think of that first week at SSU, in ’99 (yes I’m old), and wondering what was next as an English major.  I knew even then that every day had impact, contributed to something more grand and gearing.  Not so much that all days were standalone pieces, but that all days were not to be just looked at as ‘another day’.

Having my nightcap here in the living room, looking right at the xmas tree knowing xmas is over, that time just keeps with its keep and takes what it takes, but I record all, not letting a single day get away with its inherent robbery of my life, time, day, health, planetary presence.  This writer wheels on with my eyes, observing and seeing all days and all moments in those days, and all stage artifacts and microcosms as hugely impactful to my ubiety.  I become and feel more elevated than I have in days.  Not sure if I should credit this ’13 Merlot or the moment, this Now I’m in, cycling and circling such a crazed ravenous wanderer needing sights and specifics for prose or variable verse— he doesn’t know.

So…  Me, calming.  All times, seconds and nano’s, their own structure and shape, and what I muster is draped.  More ideas, but I let them away fly, not all need be put to page and shoved into a written way.  I stand alone with these wined standalones, only wanting to read and share the idea, not at all teach.  Who’s credentialed or qualified to instruct?  I’m only trying to be a shop of ideas.  And I’m not selling.  Just giving away.  Not charity, just free thought buffet— a successful unsuccessful brick-and-mortar.  At least I, we, had moments to quaff.

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