not that I need to, but more accelerate in the momentum that I’m in place put for self today. Cruised through the to-do I composed, the list that is, on Saturday and a bit last week, and feeling alive this morning. Just noted that I won’t let the semester stress me, and I have been. Not sure why. This is my last, and I will enjoy. Talking to students, today. Nothing to rush-grade, so that’s a relief. Thought this morning on “writing the book on”, as it’s said with so many things, waking unusually early to get more a jump on the day, what I have to do. What I have to write. To do yoga and stretch, my pushups and planks. To see the dark of the room, waking earlier than anyone I know and bringing to fruition more than anyone I know before they’d even have an option. There’s definitely a competitive edge to this writer, today.
Going to talk to class today. About the paper. About writing. About the day. The essay… understanding what it is. Understanding where we are and what we’re doing. More a meta discussion and ideas exchange…. Seeing me here in this break room which is also a warehouse of sorts right now with a forklift moving about and boxes being moved to one side of the floor then other, driver honking that odd, meek and metallic-sounding horn. Me smiling in love with where I work now, everything I can do with words in tech. Tech. TECH. Yes, I’m in tech. My tech revolution and reconstruction you could say for my literary life and being, practice. Nearly done with lunch, or eating what I brought, but not my literary lunch. More to write, more to reflect, reflect upon, the poetry of everything I see and hear, one of the guys to my right finding a pingpong ball, bouncing it a few times, walking to the other side of the lift to be sure the driver’s measured and aligned most optimally. “Safety is the most important thing right now, safety is THE most important thing.” He says. I note it of course and wonder what’s most important to me right now. My kids, family, MY business, this business, my mission here.
Still over 40 minutes left in sitting, so I’m not concerned with time. Not at all. But running out of observations in this room. So I go outside of it. One Ginger Ale in fridge. My eye on it. Still a bit hungry after what I brought. Not letting self buy anything. Saving. For business. Other things. Life, I guess. Saving to save as a friend said to me years and years ago. Not that hungry anymore. Only for words. For verses. That poem I wrote the other night in class, with the 1A crew for an open mic activity. Looking at the fork’ and the driver and wondering if I could do that. Never did get certified while in wine’s industry. Not sure I would have wanted to if I really had to. In fact tI was pretty vocal that I didn’t want to get cleared to do that. Could see myself puncturing a box, some pricey case or putting some oddly-shaped hole in a wall, or barrel.
In re-grouping, I’m everywhere in thought. Eager for the semester to end then saddened by thoughts of not being in a classroom. But this is where I am, this is what I want. Wanting to sell the services of this company, speak its language. Be fully present and learn from what it teaches me. Thinking I might have to leave… the talking is getting to me. I should leave, sit in one of those space-age-looking seats just outside the door. In re-grouping, wanting creative discussion tonight, on writing, on self, on health, on work, on getting what you want, on making something your own.
In one of the space seats with just over 28 minutes left on my time, time for me and if I am regrouping figurine out its objective. Whatever that means. I have no idea. I’m just delighting in the day and the cup of coffee I just made on floor to my left, smelling it but not yet sipping. Could write forever about this chair, or pod, open-egg seat. I want to swivel and move around in it, play, but don’t want to look funny. Had a thought for tonight, on feeling funny about writing, feeling odd when reading your work, the odd relationship even the most practiced writer has with writing. Finding out more about self in my writing life, my writing practice, why I’m spending my entire lunch break, essentially, and ACTUALLY, working. Yes on a project for self, but still working. Find out more about ME as a character and writer here in the first 3-4 weeks at an ISP than I did in the 12+ circular, repetitive, terminally lateral life in wine’s business. If you could call it a business. Told T the other day, and a week before that I think that wine isn’t a business, it’s bullshit. THIS, is a business. The office, was citing.
In love with this chair, how it feels to sip coffee in it. Just took first sip. Not too hot, thankful. Rest of day, more note taking. Been scribbling since I git here, everything from thoughts to the time, to what exactly I was doing, to… well, everything. I write about happiness now, how I find it, or thinking I did. I left wine’s industry. That was meteoric in movement significance. Co-workers walk by, ones I’ve never spoken to, smiling and comfortable, no stress or at least visible. And me, here, feeling comfortable and eased enough to post in one of their Jettson-y chairs. There’s something here, for me. Something. Everything. The remainder of my life. No more jobs, no more applications, no more waiting, no more interim. I’m home. Just getting started, at 39. I have a life to write, that’s why I write about. And everything assembled to resemble and radiate, read from and for happiness. There… I’m more than “re-grouped”.