inward jot

Finished grading a stack of papers, more or less ready— NO, I’m immensely ready for today’s meetings.  Going to focus on the essay itself… what writing an essay is, what it can do, why it’s an important skill and why its a type of engagement for readers they won’t find in other forms, or genres.  At the head of the conference ’T’ of tables here in the, well, conference room.  One adjunct earlier, an older man, said to me, “Still workin’ there, huh?” Didn’t so much take it as an insult as I did a beacon of recognition.  I told him in my caffeinated return, “Yep.. I don’t like the cell they stick us in.” Could hear him laugh.

On campus and ready for work, ready to teach, read to forget about my odd feeling, Monday.  Today I’m confident, and fiery.  Ready for discussion.  On the essay, poetry, poetry in prose, be it essay or fictive narration… lots to offer, today.  Will get a water on the way to the old hall where I hold class.  I’m in Literary mode, today.  Nothing ‘wine’ about me.  I’m here to learn, to be one of them, to be a student, to be brave and creative.  The day is always a puzzle, or how I see it.  Writing my way through temptations to be distracted, be it by social media, or TV, the internet, talking to someone… I just situate in the page, my page, pages… these inward jots are invaluable, a curse, a cure, a direction, a life sentence.

Need to stay more on top of grading.  It’s my cross, I tell myself that every term.  But this term will be antithetical and the one that gets me to the Road, to my travels.  Took some notes earlier, just quick jots to self on phone after brushing teeth back at the Autumn Walk Studio.

Freedom, you’re already free, you just have to accept that you’re free.

3000 words, a gift to yourself…

book, where is the fucking book?

Need more coffee, this one’s already cold, what would I do if I didn’t have coffee?


Walking in nine minutes, so I have to post what I have, I guess.  Told my students there’s always enough time in the day now I’m starting to disagree with my offering.  Shouldn’t do that.  Believe it.  Believe it!  I have plenty of time I just can’t stop and I will keep myself in a mode of this, thinking, note-taking, inwardly inner-inward jots.  The most intimate phylum of writing I can wield.

Teacher down the hall offering such sagacity to one of his students.  Or that’s how his voice sounds in its echo, so self-assured and righteous and right.  No flaw or curve in his logic, just polished sageness.  Annoys me, honestly.  What ever happened to humility?  To discovery?  What if the teacher’s wrong?  What if there isn’t one way to compose and essay?  How can there be?  The teacher could always be wrong, there is never one way to do anything, so there can’t be not matter how you frame it.

The essay.. the essay.  Stayed away from that word for some time, if you must know.  Preferred the word “submission” to use with students, or “piece”, or “work”.  Now I embrace the essay and its anatomical philosophy and intonation.  I’m on a roll, you could say today, with my jots and sight, eagerness… the students won’t know what hit them.  Not hit, but embraced.  Collect myself, for a breath or two.  Fly.