inward jot

img_0652Student car, parking lot, head down to page, writing while outside dark and loud rhythmic rain.  Dimmed dome light, and she just wrote, wrote like she had something that she had to get out before her 7 or 7:30 section of, I’m guessing English.. or something Humanities-y.  But she had to write.  I could only stare for so long as the rain was ordering me inside and to get to work, get the papers graded I didn’t Tuesday…. Me, rushed with late start this morning, sleeping in till 6.  Part of me wants to blame the wine but I can’t as I didn’t have that much.  Anyway, my rushed reasoning dominated my perspective this cruel A.M., dying for coffee having to wait in the drive-through line.  My own doing, I know.  Now in class, 7:47am, ready to I guess lecture but I need time to work on my work… my story.  I’ll let them go early then rush off to conf’ room in English Department building, and write.  Wonder if traffic will be affected by this recent storm, or front, at the winery I mean.  Could use a quiet day.  Could use a whole day where all I do is write.  More students file in, me just wanting a whole day to me.  “Why can’t you have that?” Self asks.  True, I will write the entire fucking day.  That’s my business plan.  Have to, still, write about the Melka SB I tasted yesterday.  Nice bottle, terrific structure and fruit, floral structure and profile, but no way I’d pay $140 for ANY white wine.  Think… what else from day?  More… just more.  Education, wine, self-studying, literature…. Shaping hours in my head.

“How did it turn out?” I just asked a student coming here to the front of class to staple the pages of his submission.  “Uh…fine.” He said.  Such exhaustion & surrender.  No life, or ardor, electricity in his voice.  Opposite of what this writer wants to be.  In class, ask them what they want from the day.  Have them write about it.  I know what I want, or I have myself convinced I do.  I know how this day’s to turn out, what I’ll teach myself, what the rest of my life’s to be.  In the conference room now, other instructors talking to each other, claiming to have all answers and solutions to writing.  How is that possible?  HOW?  That student in the lot, only a wee pulse of light to see what her pen forwarded to sheet… ideas, ideas, writing now, me, with the same avidity and vehemence.  Like Plath with “Daddy”, or Faulkner with ‘The Sound and the Fury’.  Hear more “teaching” in the hallways, students rushing to their instructor’s office for brilliant instruction, for solutions, panaceas for writing.  Oh, and they have the answers.  Or they think they do.  All I have are questions and thoughts to generate discussion.  My “students” and I solve together, concertedly assemble.  I’m that student in the parking lot, rushing to jot musings before I have to be somewhere.  This whole day, I’ll be her.  Need a new notebook, or do I?  One to keep on person.  This one in my back pocket’s beat.  I don’t like looking at it anymore, really.  But I’m going to write in it anyway.  Another solution.  No store visit.  I’ve had my battle with time for the day.

(Reader:  Be MAD about the day.  Shape it.)

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