All unpacked. This is exciting and odd, excitingly odd with concurrent flashes of education. I sip what’s left of the Calluna blend and continue with the day, here quiet to me— and I think to myself, “Well, you’ve always wanted to write in a hotel room, on a trip, well here you go.” Laughing to myself and needing music in this odd, unfamiliar room. Falling behind on book progress but the decline in pace isn’t terminal like last year’s attempt at a book. This is so many letters. To me and to students and to everyone and everything around me, that I accept it all and don’t resist a thing.
The wine tells me to put on some Hutcherson, or Coltrane, to relax and not think about a thing…. This is not for you, but for your kids, for your students. You work for them, just know. Getting a little hungry and wonder when the bar downstairs opens. I remember they said 17:00 (they just said “five o’clock”, but that’s how I in head noted). Irrelevant, incongruous, my overthought. So I persist pervasively in this strange room. If I were on an overnight, here, or say I’m somewhere like New York or Miami, Texas or Portland, what would I be speaking on, tomorrow? Well, writing I guess. And how what you write is more of a statement than what’s on the page. It’s more than a statement of and on you, your like. You’re tossing a significant thought stone into the collective brook. It will ripple. You should be mindful of the ebb and ricochet of your offerings. Writing, reading others’ writings as well, has alway presented a bewildering intensity of intimacy to me. So I always offer to students, “Don’t think, just write.” I admit. But know yourself before you start typing, or start penning.
Finally, with some Coltrane. “Equinox”. I’m on the Road, literally. Or I was, on the way back here after retrieving some particulars from the Autumn Walk Studio. But I’m not going to overwhelm you nor I with why I’m here in the room. I’m activating my son’s mentality, of this being an adventure… being excited to be here. I’m here because of a disaster and that hour I now re-mold into a manuscript, this month’s/year’s novel. A letter to me, you, the students, and everyone around me… the tidal wave of perception doesn’t halt and neither will the writer. The Calluna deceives me in its gentle landing and traffic. The prospective pathos forwarding me in a tiered and tireless rhythm of Me. This new writer, this new student, and I guess Educator. What I’m learning from this, more than perspective, more than managing my attitude, mood, but opening my eyes…. Looking. Understanding the scenic ingredient and calculating my composition. You want to write? Yes, just start. But, know why you want to write. I was recently told, “The ‘why’ doesn’t matter. The ‘what’ does.” This remark had to deal with winery inventory, so the speaker was actually I guess correct. But in the literary world, my world, my educating efforts, in the lectures and letters I’m about to offer the planet, the WHY is the functionality, what breathes, what circulates blood in the idea. The what proves ancillary.
Tonight, while writing, or reading, take notice of where you do so. “Location as character.” As I used to offer in class, more often. Where I am.. this hotel room. This hotel. Never been here before. Never seen this building from the outside before, I don’t think, let alone its guts, or this room. My view… a pool, a hot tub, parking lot, casino across the street. Love the room you’re in, even if it’s a dentist office, or cubicle, or waiting room, if you’re waiting for your car to be serviced. This hotel room is like a place of worship for the writer…. Regret missing class today, and very much wish the day didn’t dictate as it did with it integral complicit contingencies and volume of steps in my house, people I didn’t know. But it was there. THEY, were there. Didn’t want Alice alone. So I stayed, called both sections, and am here now in a hotel with the sun running away and this seat, this jazz, this wine, and quiet. No air cleaners, or people ripping tape off anything, people talking to each other about something I have no fucking clue what— Relax. This is the day, and the day is done and this quarter is my Now, mon espace.
Can’t believe I’m here. Singular word for me, now, in this Now…. ‘Everything’. I’m taking everything. Everything used for the story— Was just interrupted by a business call, someone tapping me for creative input for his friends’ label. I’m flattered and inspired by the call, but as well a bit irked I was taken from my sitting. Mr. Coltrane speaking to me through randomized note tangential. Know the bar’s open downstairs, but I don’t want to hear any voices, not even my own. No noise, just this room, this room, MY room. Or at least at the moment. The room tells me to stop writing, enjoy the view. Then I respond, “The view is of bloody Rohnert Park.” It says nothing back. Which means the writer/teacher/displaced daddy has to cull his next command.
Not really unpacked. All the bags are here and I haven’t touched them since I put them all here, there, on the bed and floor and the room me makes anxious when I look up. Empty glass, full thoughts, new notes, and this table makes a funny sound when I type now, without any justification since I plugged in laptop to wall outlet. New Room, hotel… want to go for a walk, observe and capture all that I can. Could go to bar and write what I hear people say. Not have anything to drink, but merely sit, scope, scribble. What’s left in the session, time-wise? Not sure. The pool behind me glows, that cinematic blue-green-white. I have no idea what to make of it but I’d love to jump in, swim while it rains or drizzles. Walking away and jumping into the pool could be MY statement, in this writing.