12:23; In the new classroom, here in Mendocino.  Already hot outside, and was forced from my quiet spot in the café, if that’s what it’s called, by students eating, laughing, talking, high volume.  It’s fine, I’m new.. already making dent in the syllabus draft.  Tonight I’ll be planning everything out.. was given a very easy-rhythm’d and informative tour by a lady, Mary, from the Office of Instr.  Making a checklist of things to do, get done before the 18th.. have to hand office hours form into HR, then finish work on syllabus– oh, get course catalogue and sched from bookstore.  Ran into fellow adjunct, or former adj’ I should say, Ginnie, who’s now FT here at MC.  Need to tighten my practices in teaching, writing, get free from where I am when not in classroom.  Through much of my checklist.  The drive up here, filling me with ideas for the semester.  I can only win with these classes, and what I’m planning to write, what I’m planning to share with the students.  I’m not going to force mySelf to finish the syllabus here, now, in this room.  I simply wanted a healthy jump, which I do indeed now have.  I can only win.

Write.  Everything.  Down.  Everything.  Even the slightest most seemingly minute thought while driving– but I can’t write while driving, and I won’t do the voice recording with my phone.  If I remember it when I reach the MC parking lot, the it gets jotted.  But I will leave nothing unscribbled.  Took me just slightly over an hour to get here, from hwy 101, just after the 12 merge.  My first class begins at 9:30, so I’ll leave at 7, precisely.  I have to.  I’ll try and prep as much as I can the prior night, but I will leave earlier than need as 1, I drive slow; 2, I need time to collect Self prior to lecture, and 3, I want to be in the room before the students– that’s always been emphasized, for me as a teacher.

Want to go for a run, but I’m afraid it may already be too hot.  And I have grading to do, for Summer.  Going to be a late night, I think.  Will tell Alice not to wait for her writing husband, as I need this semester to be the one that frees me from the bloody clock.  Was going to stop at SRJC on the way back, but am now thinking that’s not needed.  Love the feel of this room; the smaller gray square desks, the blue thin carpeting with swirling black lines and yellow-green subtle intricacies traversing the black entanglements; higher ceiling, two windows that look out at trees, a quaint courtyard.  And the drive up here, again, not rural but carvingly removed; like I’m in a distant part of one of the 4 corner states.  I only thought on the drive, how I was on MY clock, thinking my thoughts and writing my own story, finally.  Hope hasn’t been restored, it’s been trumped.  I’m free, intrinsically, definitively.  THIS, is Artistry.

Track 4 — thinner

The other blog, shutting down.  With Sir Jack on stage with me, I can’t afford too many irons.  The chapbook, moving along.  Did some writing today at work.  Was interesting.  Like my cubeNOTES, but with a view, seeing the actual world (sky, clouds, ground, vines, trees pushed by atmospheric jolts) and more enjoyable characters around me.  11:17pm, and all I can think about is travel.  That writing session in the hotel Room, with whatever red they have on their menu.  Tonight, sipped an ’07 Estate Cab from AV.  The first chord that met my sense net: chocolate, coupled with a little black pepper.  Had a couple glasses, the whole time wondering what Katie’s and my wine does in its generously neutral barrel.  How could it be “neutral” when I can tell that oak’s working, massaging the sculpture of that juice?  Another thing to put on the list of Katie questions.  So much poetry accumulated now, I have to do something with these pieces.  Have 8 or 9 works, “songs” I guess, arranged almost like an EP.  Would love to see a crowd’s collective eye on me, listening to my expressions, reflections, entries.  No rain tonight.  Last night’s front, forceful.  Nearly angry.  Loved it.  Perfect for one of my suspenseful short stories, which I haven’t touched in well over two years.  Don’t have time, now.  And that’s fine.  Jack’s landing pushed me even further into this word-whirled waywardness.  Writing in moment.  Don’t want to say “stream of consciousness.” Used too much, by me, others.  The little character down the hall’s providing help in consolidating project effort, aim, time, Life, passion more than anyone or one event ever’s been able to.  I was a bizarre blend, not knowing what end I wanted envisioned.  Now, me a rhino of a Cabernet, driving undeviatingly at my endeared end.  Like Mr. Shakur, I’ve been logging 3 standalone pieces a day.  Length, presently, not crucial.  Just want to stay Creating.  And, thanks to Mr. Jack Patrick, such is much easier.  I’m alas the Cabernet character I aspired.  Leaping further into my newest, most fruitful ever of years.

2/29/2012, Wednesday