Something different. Not sure what it was, and still is at this late hour, 22:34, but I’m here, quite presently. Forgetting what it is to write, because of the laptop being out of some kind of commissioned commission. No more, though, after the walk at lunch along the creek bed, seeing the steelhead try so sharply to get up Dutcher Creek. I watched, and took so as instruction, the not-so-little fish telling me to swim against the current, create my own currency. The day started with a rile but after the event today he sits here, the writer, rather tired. The semester starts the day following tomorrow and I’m prepared but strangely nervous. Why. I always ask myself that. Do I have something to lose, as an adjunct? Am I afraid of something? Not being received well, in the lecture? NO. I’m just here, maybe thinking too much, but I’m thinking. Again, “strangely” nervous.
Babies asleep upstairs. Both. Emma, walking all over the house today according to Alice, and now sleeping in her crib. All the way down the hall from our room– or, just twenty feet or so. AND, the little priestess decided that today is her day of autonomous saunter. YES, the little poetess is walking. How and why I ask my self as I just continue to get old, old, me so old. I’m nuts, not at all perfect, just that aging daddy, here with no wine but knowing I need some. Fuck it, I think, I need some. Alice watches an old episode of ‘Sex and the City” and I sit here in this swivel chair not swiveling and thinking about Tuesday– day one of the semester. Hunter S. Thompson talk and the whole getting-to-know… Riding through the syllabus, and me trying to be the “professional” adjunct. But what’s “professional”?
Tangential, that’s what I’m aiming for, typing on this keyboard that’s thin and odd; not mine and just weird. The Merlot from sister’s winery tasting like it’s more instructional than that steelhead. Walking along that creek bed and just watching the water told me to be truly tireless, not just think and talk about it in some timeless cognitive perambulation. The wine has answers, the bottle has decision and speak. It speaks to me with certitude with wandering grandiose layeredness. Need to be more tangential and you should be, too. With everything. And I mean, really everything. What is normality? Something I want to avoid. What I peg as “just weird” is acutely something I should chase. Dance to and after. Sure of one thing, the story need continue and never close– the Merlot develops its ferocity and refuses to halt, even minutely. It sings with true angularity and throws its new pew. No weather outside, no fair, so I just harness self and speak to this most recent tangent. Like this morning, how it started, with newer than renewing new fire. This new year, now new, but I set something never-before-seen to its pre-set scene.
The adjunct just wants his nightcap before his client meeting tomorrow morning. Part of me growls, “Why can’t I just have a day off?” But that’s join of those thoughts I should have just kept a muffled thought and now put to page, but here I did, I did– The light of similarity is too bright, I write too much mirroredness. So I need embrace this theatrical tangential. Did I not study HST? I have no Fear, and I only love, no Loathing. My babies upstairs have a daddy downstairs who still grapples with his meditations. But, that, now, stops.