Two minutes past when I wanted to be writing. Yesterday in Brentwood, having to walk about two miles to my car, thinking and taking pictures, enjoying the sun and how it hit those hills. The drive back, music and thoughts of vocational banality, and now, finally, I experience no such thing. I do credit Sonic but as well I credit the way I approach what I do here, my perspective as soon as I sit down at the desk and tackle tasks. Obsequious this morning and much lately especially in Brentwood yesterday, walking with the Reps and one Lead down streets and hearing what people had to say about their current internet and how long they’ve lived there, their homes…. I took note of architecture and the front doors, how many of them were in what was a mock-bell tower. All that was missing was the bell. Reminded me of sister’s winery and how at the hour the bell sounds, often starting or plainly scaring anyone in the tower right at that sound-time.
8:23. The nook, mine. All mine. At least for the next 30 minutes. Class tonight. Still no sections for Fall. That could change, but in no way do I hold my breath. In. NO. Way.
Thinking at lunch I’ll go to that café, whatever it’s called just down Sebastopol. Get some word done for tonight’s class. Just checked email, nothing from students, or nothing important anyway and no notice of classes for Fall. Letting it go. Completely. Hear someone walk into the breakroom. Tempted to see who but I resist. Putting self in classroom, taking notes, student and instructor. Have ideas pummeling me from all angles and my voltage increases and refuses to cease in any regard. Learning that I’ll always be learning, about how to approach time for lunch to what I do first thing in the morning, to notes I notes to self and for more strengthened self, to questions. More questions, capturing observations and studying them for the day and how it presents itself to me.
Wipe nose. Better not be getting a cold, what little Emma has. Coffee still hot. Have to use restroom but won’t. Write, write more… start writing talk for 3/9. More or less know what I’m going to talk about. Freedom, how individuality muffles the vocational banality, and how we decide to be free. We decide to live more jazz-like, musically and poetically. We allow walls and ceilings to dictate sight. Or, we don’t. Or, we just don’t believe in them. We express and live, and speak, wildly. Create from such practice and habit, maintain in that manuscript.
8:37. Rise time will be at 8:50. Now what, I think to self. Bottledaux, the name of the blog. My blog, yes, but just a blog. This morning and just now I said to self, “Pouring it all out.” We all should. We should all be our own “platform”, or gate, or door, or bridge. We decide the composition of the bridge convoying us from one scene to another. But, how do we want to see ourselves? All that matters, all mattering, ever. This is the thesis to bottledaux, I’m understanding. How do you want to see yourself… All mattering, ever. YES. Now, typing, sipping coffee when I can before diving into a list of tasks for day and enjoying my Literary lunch.