Perception, in the kitchen.

Running in the morning.  Ahead on timeline.  IF you could call it that.  Great day in meetings, dinner with parents.  Still hungry but not eating anymore.  Writing novel on her… her… the one wanting more… the character changing jobs, going for creative and not the expected.  I should go to bed, she orders.  I resist knowing I shouldn’t.  In Kerouac beat mode, on beat time.  So what then… more story, more in this kitchen.  Cards for the babies, Valentine’s Day.  What is that.  I’ve never known.

Going to have capping of night, then to bed go… running in morning.  Have to write more on the run, the run is life, is love is reason, is the counter to the counter, the counterargument to anything pessimistic.

Sitting in this kitchen, at the parent’s house… some could judge, and that’s fine.  I’m so focused on my control and centeredness of things.  Some will argue, object and counter-cross-object and puff their legalistic language in so many climates and shapes, but I just don’t listen.  Right now, I’m righted in my Now.

More than simple perception or sight, I don’t know how to define it and I really don’t know how.  I don’t care to.  I think of the poets I study, and the diarists I admire, like Ms. Plath and Pac, Hem with his letters, and Mr. Sedaris, and I find so much funny.  I’m going to delight in life, knowing some will say something.

Distracted by messages.  Should go to bed.  And keep with my stance, keep with my keep, assert the sight and acknowledgement of everything around me.  The world is funny, Humans are funny and barely deserve that capital.  No one in this kitchen but me. Running when it’s dark. So.. go.  Light jazz in back, and me just going from thought to thought, possibility to new newness with this new movement.  Some would maintain a detriment in my narrative, but the peripatetic jabs are only a lucrative tell.  Somehow, they ought be.

On campus. About to walk to room.  Emeritus 1610.  How many fucking classes have I taught in that room.   I don’t even think I’m capable of calculating or inventorying.  Notes prepped, more or less, and Kerouac’s book looks back at me, almost like it’s posing, “Again, Mikey?” Yes, again.  We all need answer to our calls to travel and break cast, sever mold, free self from shackles and inner battles.

The American Dream, in this book explored.  Or is it more than anything American?  Maybe it’s just human, me right now in this conference room where I’ve written thousands of times.  This campus, these thoughts, my first term teaching here, fucking 12 years ago.  But I’ve grown quicker, more hungry, with more loving and creative ire.

project

Day TWENTY-THREE

Starting at Jimtown, as often on a Sunday in my wine life.  Since shooting from pillow and sheet, thinking re-start, and re-write.  We have ever opportunities and invitation for re-writing the story, for starting over if we elect.  Right now, more decisions to be maddened closer to Day HUNDRED, so much of the page stack not yet written, and unread.  So, proceeding forward into horizon.

Thinking of essays this morning, what this day is, essay-wise.  The argument.  The centrality, and reality, manifold duality.  Where I am, Jimtown.  What I’m doing, writing before Week 2 of the semester that wasn’t supposed to happen.  What I’m learning, already—no rush.  In this re-write, I see more.  I’m calm.  There will be certain facets certainly cut off.  The idea of work, what it is for so many.  What it could be, why so many don’t let themselves be happy.  Why they don’t create madly, and let the vessel go to crashing.  Making decisions, this morning.  About everything.  Everything for my positions, for my identities, narratives…. Writer in a tech company, as an Account Executive no less, and me in the classroom.  Write everything.  The new bridges won’t frighten if not allowed.  Everything is everything, and the every-ness of each stretch is connected.

Back room at Jimtown, wine life Sunday but there’s more than just wine and this 23rd day in the project.  But…. Place.  More music, more verse, all opportunity and doors open sing to me, to US, this morning and all days.  Stress is permitted.  In this room, in your room, wherever you are, decide to be MAD.  With your story fiery and tireless, moving to your frame envisioned.  I share where I am and my work story from wanting for others to make theirs completely under their compositional control.  Thinking too much will not lead to creative, will not lead to production and the architecture of your aptness.

Just now, caught self thinking, and overthinking.  This morning is precisely what this “professor” needed.  Readings starting this next week, for the two classes I somehow inherited.  Teaching, and teaching what.  WORK.  For students to not only take ownership of their work, but see it as a self-educating ebb.  In my staying thinking at this table, I wonder if anyone else has ever written here.  And what discussions have been had here, and on what.  Who has sat where I’m sitting, what families have been in this part of the back room, and what did they talk about.  Where do they live, full-time.  What brought them to Sonoma County.

What I do for work, blogging and writing about work, but thinking about more than what’s to be thought of, irrelevant of what the clock was, is.  Dismiss my inner-pessimist, and have the day speak to me.  Where I am, what I’m doing in the back dining room of this market, quasi-restaurant.  9:16, should get on the Road in a bit…. Walk a vineyard, let the clusters help me ideas muster.  For the day, for the week.  Can write anything into tangibility in your re-start and re-write.  Looking at every antique and tool and thing in this room, where I’m working.  Seeing the images, work to itself even if not written.  It, they, assist in compounding and composing character.

Tonight Pinot was

seen and felt differently. There was more. I don’t know how else to say it. There wasn’t simplicity, but something like it. Honesty, approachability, something. It wasn’t Pinot, it was more. Not some fashionable name you just say to say it, telling people you drink it. There was love there tonight, at Mom and Dad’s. Love.