Like This-Me

img_3362On lunch and of course I write in the office.  This morning, learning what I need do.  But more than that, seeing more clear.  More self and reason in the Self, sense of self in delivering my moment and what I learn from them.  This office, this plain of cubicles, shoving me further away from them, and further from wine’s industry.  Not that I’m imbedded in any disdain or skirmish, just that I want to explore and study more, far past this containment of wine and its industry, much as it teaches me about me and my writing, putting stories to page.

Yesterday talking to students about being students, I’m more prone to paragraphs, reviewing notes of mine from past books and tablets kept.  Found one such, this morning, in office.  A small one that I bought at Dutcher Crossing when there.  And one note, on one of the middle pages, “beauty is not caused. It is.” Not sure why I didn’t use any capitals, and I’m not concerned with that, as I fixate on beauty and the concept of, Poe’s address of beauty and searching for it.  Lunch, I study.  Lunch, I work.  I have to.  As writers, or those claiming to be writers or teachers, academics, we need to be working, always working.  I’m distracted by others in this office, nice guy that I talk with and joke with rather regularly, at my right.  He on a call, doing his job, focused, so why can’t I.  On my research, Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath, Kerouac… lectures for the next week, over the summer even though I didn’t get any Summer sections.  But why wait for some institution to allow me to teach.  I won’t.  I’m in my office, at this table, planning for … nothing.  Just doing.  No planning.  We only need actuate, only need act, go and do and move…. Written mobility, ideas compiled and shared.  This day, morning teaching me about me, what I need focus on.

Kerouac suggested wild type-written pages for my own joy.  They are for my joy, but to push the world, or anyone interested in reading to find their voice and their stage, to do what calls them.  There should never be a justification or any acceptable rationale to settle.  Ever.  Reason in the Self, to understand that Self with more roundness and detail.  I nearly didn’t come up here, but go spend money on some overpriced sandwich at the deli on Pleasant, here in Windsor. But no.  I elected the office, my office, this table, surface at which I always type.  Collecting pages into some piece, some treatise, offering for someone to consider.  Kerouac also tells us as thinking humans to write bottomless from the bottom of our minds.  I use everything, wandering as I do but to better understand this here-me, immediately.  Surrounded by cubicles, I’m freer today than I’ve been in months.  No walls or ceiling… only a cloud set, and a view, ado, for me.  Pen it all, note and to page, me gone.