img_693211:18.  Been a day so far but finally I can sit, go through the few pictures I was able to pocket and store earlier from a vineyard off Guerneville Road.  Sometimes you need to take yourself out of the picture to understand it better.  That’s where my head is, presently.  Could have woke just before 5 this morning but didn’t.  No dwelling, just staring.  At my pictures… the one of the leaf, the one of that wheel or jagged pulley.  Wish I could have stayed out there all day.  Wish the whole day could have been out there then it wouldn’t have been as it was.

Can’t upload one of my photos, or any of them with the reception here on campus so I img_6942just write.  Refusing to be pinned and penned in that shared adjunct office I come here to the conference room.  Have thirty minutes to write, and I have no idea about what.  Today has shown me a harsh side to days, principally.  But I’ll write through it.  Out of it.  What if I gave the best lectures of my career over the next few hours?  I could do that, right?  I will.  Just talking to them.  Will be in Room in 27 minutes.  Which means logically I have 17 to write.  But write about what.  I’m an adjunct instructor of English here in the conference room of the English department fulfilling no part of my contractual duties.  Should be grading, but no.  Why.  Want to feel free.  Free from the day.  Just for a minute.  I know… this isn’t very wine writer-y of me.  Not sure I care or even want to talk about that dimension of my direction, if it’s a direction.

All this change in my pocket.  Every time I move it jingles and annoys to infinite annoyance.  Write on.  Write past.  Or better, write further into.  Ignore the annoyances not, but rather take them head-on.  Defy them.  Challenge them.

img_6946-1I’ll slightly edit and post shots later.  Right now I need a meditation.  A separation.  Not so much a release, but reason, reasoning.  Getting distracted by life and bills, obligations, appointments, and all compounded by certain ingredients since the fires.  Nothing I can do now, and why get annoyed with what you see on the drive up ‘SM’, then on Coffey?  Just drive, keep going.  Focus on the vineyards as you did this morning.  Look through my old photos for something of focus.  And I find something… leaf during fall transformation.  Need a walk, now… well, you’re going to get one.  Across campus.  To class.  My mood falls, tailspins, just want the day to walk vineyards in France, Spain, Portugal, anywhere but here—  Not right what I’m feeling but it’s what I’m ping-ponging, tirelessly back and forth in my total totality.

Reminding self that all I need is what I have in front of me— watered-down cold press coffee, which is still working and this typing speed is evidence of. My fire, my untitled syllabic tidal wave over and from, through and past my own thoughts.  Since yesterday at the Windsor coffee spot, I don’t want to write around others.  At all.  May type a bit in Maggini Hall once I get there.  I can tell the day is infecting my decisions, actions, perceptions of what’s around me.  Take more pictures… even this plastic cup has an artful value and voice, presence and code.  Just took a picture.. not sure if it’s worth anything but— of course it is.  It’s my moment, now, here, me in this restless rile and tussle with my own ideation.

Know I should leave now, but don’t want to.  Want to take time for me, ME.  Why not.  This whole day has been attacking me and insisting I do this, that, not get to my pages or work on book, this writing father, part-time teacher and winery person, wanna-be photog’… but maybe I don’t have to wanna-wanna.  No… why should I?  Going to note in Composition Book what’s to be done in class.. first.  Conversation, Creativity… solving everything.

Maybe this is a talk with self that I needed to have.  Feels that way.  Mom always said that would work, has been for years.  Need some sparkling water to dilute this caffeine impact, even me a bit.  Print role sheets… shit, should probably do that now.  But I don’t want to stop.  Want to go through more of these vineyard pics, visit and revisit them as tasting room guests say.

Many times I feel I’m writing about nothing but then I see I’m writing me and I estimate this author as a bit more than a ‘nothing’.  Oui?  Time to go, I know.  But don’t want to.  Here, all’s clear.  No— go give the lecture of your life.  Print role sheets first.  Do it now, before you forget.  You always forget to do that or mismanage your time to a point where you just fucking can’t.  Yeah… this isn’t a wine blog.  Well, maybe it could be, like … wine is life.  Doesn’t everyone think and say and suggest that?  Too m any people around me now.  So leave… leave!  I will.


Much later in the day, evening, I sip a glass of some Pinot, think from ’12, and look at more pictures.  Photog’ is now me, coinciding with my written vivacity…. Another shot, another, one from today along G-ville Rd.  Want to take pictures of everything, write about them.  If a picture’s worth a thousand words, what are the thousand words worth, if compiled?  A book.  BOOKS.  A career.  Took three pictures of my glass, Pinot with its light red/magenta/floral brown sugar shade.  Only thoughts and thought going through my veins and circuitry, a distilling of poise and dereliction, commingled in fruition fission.  A book.  A career.  Then, I’m fearless.  Tireless.  Today’s lectures and my pen-to-paper pulses, cardiac and synaptic in voice.

A day.  Now, ending.  But I want it to keep going.  More images.  Lower level, emptier, me calm, in visually chameleonic Equilibrium.  Pinot knocking on my inhibitions, then merely opening the door— no resistance.  No more ruin, only rebuild, only color, greens and blues and bright cinnamon browns.  I sit on the knoll, writing, corner of Coffey and Hopper.


IMG_5735Finished letter.  Now readying mentally for work.  Will get there around 09:30.  Or maybe a bit before.  Have quite a bit to do in tasting room but don’t want to think about that now.  Focusing on travel, going o France and writing about the Bordeaux locales and Chateaus.  Just Letting mind wander and write freely, just what the wild wine writer needs this morning— thinking about my babies and what they see around them after the fires.  Keep telling myself I won’t write about it anymore, and that I won’t talk about it with tourists who ask either out of concern or just putrid nosiness, “Are you okay from the fires?” Or locals that learn that I live in Coffey Park and when they find out I still have a house they offer a look of either confusion or annoyance that my story isn’t horrible or as painful as they wanted it to be.  Voiced all this to wife this morning and, bless her ears and heart and eagerness to listen in listening, now have more sense of it all.  But the collective story here in Sonoma County has changed, make no mistake.  All I can think about is moving somewhere and not seeing Santiago, San Miguel, Hopper, Coffey…

Wine.  Wine.  Focus on wine.  Wine will take me everywhere.  Brought camera today and hope to be out in vineyard blocks taking pictures.  Will take lunch before lunch so I can lunch on images, feast on what’s around a writer.

Police officer rises, grabs his coffee, leaves.  I too need to be on my beat— this tired and hungry Beatnik inviting everything in and wondering what to do with all that’s gathered.

Old wine image…. White grapes brought onto crush pad, for their destiny, their storytelling.  Me in this coffee shop, downtown Windsor, thinking I need more images like this, more Now’s like this.  This whole book is a letter to me— embrace the natural photography, capture it, and go—


While on lunch at the winery I collect myself, or try to with only 30 minutes to self.  Don’t have time to eat.  Need to get these ideas out, down on the page.  I’m rushing like the winemakers and their teams during harvest.  I don’t have time to breathe, much less fucking eat.  Lady yesterday, asking “So, do all Chardonnays have, like, oil in them?” Didn’t know how to answer.  Well, what I said was, “No.” But, even still I thought the question was interesting.  Funny, yes, but interesting.  How we use language to convey what we taste, what greets our senses and speaks to us.  We speak with the language we have.  Some wonder if they’re using the “right” words.  I never understood that.  The “right” words?  “I don’t have all the wine words, you know, but…” A lady said a month or so ago when I had a private ground in the breezeway with a view of the vineyards and Bella’s magnetic hill.

Time is just running out.  And wine is all about time.  These bottles are time capsules and our sipping affirms their importance and magnitude in it all.  This is an arena, a reflective maelstrom that encourages us to just further explore and be wild in our intellectual wine strides.  Not that it needs to be over-intellectualized, but certainly the thoughts are legitimate and meaningful to our existences.

12:30… the wine writer needs to be back in that room in 4 minutes.  So I should stop, I know.  Go back in there with my little pages and pen and listen.  What are they saying?  What bottle becomes a part of whose story?  That’s what brings me here to this industry.  That’s why I can’t let go of my wine memories and why I’m trying to remember as many as I can for this book and inoculate pages with them.

$0 for lunch.

So that’s a victory, I guess.  Eating cheese and crackers I brought to work, at my desk.  Will spend my 30 minutes walking the vineyard, taking pictures.  If I would have gone to lunch with Collyn, I would have dropped at least $8 on something, a burrito, or sandwich at Dry Creek General, or something from that Thai place.  But I stood firm, no dollars dropped.

What am I looking for in the vineyard?  What kind of pictures do I want to pocket?  Don’t know.  Don’t want to plan, don’t want to promise self or readers anything.  Just walked in from a quick visit to the tasting room, where I sipped the ’14 Syrah from the property.  It’s certain, I have to one day have my own label.  Something small, 5,000 cases or less.  No distribution to stores, only some local and out-of-state restaurants.  So what am I looking for out in those Rhone blocks?  Some ideas for my winery, which I want to take shape in the next couple years.  Have my sister as a consultant, maybe, if she can.

These crackers, the string cheese, definitely embody a certain financial and economic triumph for the writer.  Taking $10 from my pocket, what I would have spent had I gone out, probably more had we gone to the Thai place, and placing it in a part of my wallet I designate for business cash.  Need to have this stash far away from the writer, maybe at Mom and Dad’s house.  Somewhere in my own home, maybe, where I’ll be sure to never touch it.  Maybe even indefinitely forget about it.  Ugh, ‘maybe maybe maybe’…  Just bloody do it, already!  Out of sight, but not forever out of mind, right?  There I go seeking validation again.

Taking another handful of crackers into my mouth, looking out the window, the glass of that door at my 12, seeing where I’ll walk but not what I’ll think.  The vineyard will tell me that.

NaNoWriMo a-go-go

Thinking of how to make money as a writer.  Isn’t that a dumb idea to conjure, to meditate or stress over, or anything over?  I should be working.  I should be productive…  I did just sell some wine over the phone, so that’s something, right?  Already November 4th.  And I don’t know if I can keep with this NaNoWriMo mojo.

The quiet in the office unnerves me.  Should go for a walk.  Talk to self and take more pictures of those rows just outside this cottage office.  Photographed those Cabernet vines I don’t know how many times, but there’s a challenge there, right?  To do it differently.  You want to be a photog’?  Then get CREATIVE.

Sip again the mocha…  Not working as I need it to.  Why can’t I have the day off?  I need a walk.  A walk outside.  I need air.  If you don’t have air you die, right?  Don’t think I don’t notice myself seeking affirmation or confirmation, validation for my sentences this morning.  I’m in an odd mood.  Not a “bad” mood, but it’s about oddity this morning for me.  So I imagine myself as my son or daughter, I’m in college, and I’m reading Dad’s memoir–  “Why was Dad so hard on himself?” I think, as Emma or Jack.  “Why was he always asking himself questions he already had the answers to?” This could be excess deliberation I realize but it’s natural for a writing father to mentally mince his identity this way.

One way to make money, just sell everything I write.  My book when it’s done…  just gather a bunch of writings, whatever I can find on that goddamn laptop, and sell it.  Poem and paragraph… the messier the better.  Just have something to read, right?  See, there  Have something to read then you have something to sell, Dad.  I again go.  “Mikey-a-Mess” I call myself when I get like this, all over-caffeinated and ornery.


On campus, and much recovered from the food poisoning frolic recent.  Still not 100%, but leagues better than yesterday.  Thought yesterday at the winery would never end, with the sore joints, fever, infuriated core.  But, it’s over, no more.  In adjunct cell with blueberry muffin and coffee, appreciating words from a fellow adjunct telling me on of my ‘100’ students likes my “philosophies” and how I share my insights on literature and issues with the class, and how I promulgate discussion and maintain energy in the classroom.  She, this other adjunct, must have had him for English 307 or 305, anyway I’m instructing him now and hearing this, unprompted, assures me my life is meant to share ideas.  And that’s all my teaching “philosophy” is, invitation.  An invitation to exchange ideas and hear what others have to say, appreciate insights on everything— literature, societal matters, general life, work, family, all be.

Can’t tell you how promising it feels to be on campus, even though I let the 100 section go early, I’m in my character, more than just “in my element” as people say.. I’m in teaching mode, and thinking about the future of my teaching, and what I want to learn— learn from students and learn from the collective character of this campus.  My mind’s just in a riled and tireless wander, if you don’t mind, post-sick.  The incident taught me that I have to keep moving, and when I’m not moving is when I’m most not-me, most upset, and just generally disgruntled.  I’m better now, though, and I plan on decisively defeating my Monday, as this one student said earlier.  He came to class dressed up, medium-blue hued sports coat, same shade slacks, chic shoes.  “You look nice, man.  You have a job interview or something?” I said.  “No, I just wanted to defeat my Monday.  You told us Mondays don’t have to be Mondays, so I wanted to defeat my Monday by dressing nice.” Couldn’t help but bask and study his attitude.  Now I mimic, benefiting from my own instruction in a way.

In this adjunct shared cell, I plan further.  What I want and how to get it.  Easy, I realize.  “Go all out.” Cliché, maybe, but truth.  That’s one of boon and lovely layers of cliché is that it’s known, accepted, and mostly proven true.  At least in this case.  So, always be on campus, mentally.  I will.  I’ll defeat this Monday by taking a mammoth step toward my aim, toward travel, what I want for me and my family.  I know, just a writing father professing, professing…  This is not professing.  This is planning.  And my plan…  Be the most ‘Me’.  I can think and think and think, but I’m now the figure to do, do, do.  Everyone in the hallway talking, all those full-timers and lifelong adjuncts who don’t dare do something more, don’t know I’m in here doing what I’m doing.  Everyone should have time fixes like this, junctures of immense sight and realization, meditation.  So now, me, further into the day, on campus with a near-gone muffin.

Finished Grading

(just some adjunct professor thoughts…)

Ahead of schedule for once.  Ahead of my deadline of 3:50PM.  Time now 3:46 and I have time to me.  This feels odd, I won’t dodge.  Why, ‘cause you know me, I’m that teacher that finishes grading only hours or less before class.  but, here I am, in the adjunct office, with time to myself.  More or less ready for next class, and celebrating this quiet, quiet, quiet time.  Hear some doors out there, in the hall, as usual.  Think I should do something different.  Like go for a walk, or something.  What I’d really like is a nap.  Yeah, if only.  I know so many teachers, college or high school or grammar know what this is like.  This holding pattern.  So far ahead of schedule that you need some kind of schedule, some more scheduling, thinking “Oh, well, okay, now what do I do?” “Well,” I say to myself, “you’re a teacher… assign yourself something.” Fine.  Go outside, go for a short walk to your car, drop something off in the car, then walk back to this adjunct cell.  Take pictures with phone.  It may have nothing in the way of a dominant message or theme, but it will be something.  Something to do, something to write about, something to share with the next class.  Trying to teach myself something, that “something” being what to do with a surplus of time.  Don’t think, don’t over-measure, in fact don’t measure at all!  Just get out there, go for a walk, record then write.  If this is my last semester teaching in an institution, as an adjunct, I need to pocket every minute of it.  Have all those minutes and seconds on page, on the blog, for everyone (especially other teachers, and even more especially other adjuncts) to consider.  So I’m off, out the door, to bring materials from first class to car.  And, away…

After the walk, I learn that such walks cure nearly everything.  Angst, anxiety, overthinking about what I’m to lecture in less than 50 minutes, what I have to do when I get home with giving the babies their baths, readying them for bed, dinner for wife and I… everything.  I took pictures of the trees, a narrow path from the C Lot to the center of campus.  I realize this is where I belong, this is where we teachers belong.  On campus.  Nothing fantastic or superficial about this stage, it’s a place of definition and understanding, both of which are established by the individual.  Our own timetable, or “schedule” if you prefer that connotation.  Being a teacher of English, at least as I’ve come to know it, is the more inviting of disciplines.  Again, just how I’ve come to see it.  Through the stories, how we interpret the stories, how we relate them to our own life and share those connections with our fellow students.  I’m on a bit of a tangent, maybe.  Now there’s no way I could take a nap.  Too much synaptic snaps a-fire.  Glad all the grades are on this printed spreadsheet.  Wow, “I’m finally ahead,” I think.  What could I get done if I stay ahead?


Bloody Garmin ran out of power on run. 

Didn’t let it bother me, even slightly.  I felty altogether free, a run non-numerically.  No obsession with what that little screen said.  I just ran, focusing on pacing and form, letting my vessel to me speak, let me know how it felt.  Though I wasn’t fixated on any numbers, I’m quite sure I topped 3 miles, which is fine, more than fine as my approach with the coming half’s is to start slow, impressively slow, for the first three miles then push self into intentioned intervals.

Ran through vineyards on Coffey, then up to Hopper sbux where I learned Alice hadn’t yetimg_3848 arrived, then ran back toward Coffey, where I intercepted Alice and the babies.  We had our coffee and snack inside Hopper then walked back to the A-Walk Studio.  A bit later, to the children’s museum.  Can’t remember the proper title of the facility, but I couldn’t stop noting in my head everything I was seeing, all around us a punctuation and push of self-education; children instructing themselves, the cause-and-effect of everything, watching trains and how they function, a light ball (not sure the material) levitating above a conical device expelling consistently tempered air.  Jack was into everything, wandering around and always wanting to show me everything.  This one section that emphasized building, assembly of things, a sign saying “DREAM BIG”, and another “MINDS AT WORK”.  I immediately thought of the garage, and how so many entrepreneurs started in their garage, a place of building a career or some thing, a career around some thing or idea, device or story— all of it.  I as well thought of how far away I am now from that age, but thinking like them, or trying, eager to explore and build, just seeing where an idea will go.  Cause.. effect.  This museum visit very much affecting my cause.  Cause?  My movement toward the Road, exploring the entire world and collecting characters and sensory sparkers, markers.

Now, Alice has her stylist friend over, to do her hair some certain specific way before the family photo shoot this evening.  Today, very much of the father mode.  And my note earlier, on not fighting time, poignant from my story.  I may want to write for an hour, or even thirty minutes.  But if all I have is ten minutes, then that’s what I use.  And now, who knows how much time  I have with Emma watching Mama get her hair shaped, and little Kerouac upstairs napping.  Cued the coffee for the writer father, as the run did take more vitality than I estimated.  I’m running out of power.  Maybe I will get a chance to nap like Kerouac.  No.. can’t afford it.  First day of class, going to play with the thought of ‘freedom’, with the students.  See how they understand the idea, when and where they’ve ever experienced it.  Bring them some poetry which I believe promotes the idea of total Autonomy.  And how Poetry IS freedom.  More verses…  Compound.


coffee VENTING

img_3623A ten mile run, visit to the runner’s store later, I’m at the desk, ready for Composition.  Brewed coffee.  Already understand I won’t get to many items on the list, and I have to be okay with that.  The adjunct with all his papers to grade, grades being due by tonight.  How is that enough time to evaluate work thoroughly.. note to myself about educational qualms, what I don’t want in my story, and what not, what be.  Overthinking again, I can feel it, hear my inner-assembly chant and raise their hands trying to get my attention but I’m set on my daily thousand, meditating here in the office, organizing maybe a bit.  But now I need some coffee.  So this is what a day off feels like, I say to my self, before getting up, getting the coffee.  How much longer am I to continue with this semester-to-semester balderdash.  I set a dat by which it must end.  9/1.  Not sure where I came up with that square on the calendar, it just flashed and flurried, fury’d to my forum.  Coffee abetting my jazz, jazz from Hutcherson’s crew assisting me in shaking this exhaustion post-10..  What I want from day.. writing, the same directedness and drive I materialized on run I so do with this sitting, and those coming after it.  Need to look for a new writing spot today, somewhere, have one in mind but it jostles, jumps, I’m not convinced the Story intends it.  I’ll see.

The exhaustion won’t leave me alone, and I don’t intend on sipping the coffee too quick as I don’t want the tiredness to dictate anything in this day.  Yes, I expected this after such a testing and trying run, but still I wage a push against.  Everything today is music, everything with beat and syncopation of some sort, urging me to be musical more and ready self for readings.  Instructing, yes, but more so sharing ideas, offering thoughts, asking readers to consider something new.  I’m wandering, I know.  I cite the enervation, the run, but I can’t blame it, or me for anything, just write onward, prepare for Summer, sell these offerings, bind them, have something to sell.  But that takes money to print them, no?  Going to blend the ideas of ‘Alloy’ and ‘Mon Petit Mise’, to form one large collection of memoir’d prose.  My life as an adjunct, which now isn’t getting to me as it used to.  Why did I let it slither under my skin and lay its bitterness eggs all about my inner surface and circuitry?  No value in dwelling on that now, not at all.  But I recognize where I was, with attitude and perspective, and it did me no good, not at all, not one small microscopic drop of benefit to complaining and grieving, citing the adjunct plight, the adjunct plight.  It’s a war I’ll never win, trying to fight the system which holds adjuncts in place, allows to do nothing but run in circles— or not even any shape, but more like a treadmill, boring, no increase in elevation, just the same. thing. over. over…..

Only 11:20 in the day, and I wonder what I should next do, on list or elseways.  Want to get everything off this desk, which IS on the list…  Done.  Now all the clutter’s on the floor.  I’ll deal with it later, over a beer I’m guessing.  Now.. what.  I should be writing and only writing not worrying about cleanliness of this office, and how the day is just running faster than I did on my 10, even though I averaged 8:44 per mile.  Time’s quicker than me, motivated by its own cruelty.  Stop complaining!  I know, I know…  Shower, bookstore, get Jackie’s allergy medicine (also on list), stop at that writing cove for a little composition over a cold Coke.  Why not.  Maybe a snack, as well.  Again, why not.  My day off.  An adjunct with time to himself, imagine that.

Noisy garbage truck bloody drives by with its squeaky wheels and noisy airy pump sounds, picking up the plastic trash bins, garbage and recycle, one of them (don’t know, too agitated by its music to look), then he drives away.  No apology for cutting my concentration and sitting’s serenity as he did.  I refocus on Hutcherson, the coffee.  Think I need another cup.  The 9/1 deadline, going to take it more than “seriously”.  I’ll reshape into a worshiper of that date, the date I don’t have these fucking stacks of paper on my office floor, the date where I’m no longer considered a ‘non-essential part’ of the college.  Referring back to the definition of ‘adjunct’, of course.  We’re considered an ‘other’.  Really.  You know what, enough on that.  Not a battle I can win, nor that I want to win.  My Happiness lies in Autonomy, Travel, telling stories of what I see, like Andy taking pictures in Turkey, and all the other places he visits for his material.  My material for day, what set me in a new mode of ‘me’, the run.  Have to register for a—  And that truck returns again.  Or a different one.  GODDAMNIT.  Ignoring it, focusing on the jazz, want another cup of this espresso blend Mom and Dad gifted me for my birthday, couple nights ago.  Wow, and there again I’m reminded— the running writer/adjunct/father’s 37.  Sulk—

Brewing.  Thinking of business ideas, pulling up revised plan I started typing the other day—  These caffeinated vents could very much be a prime facet of my character as a writer, my “brand” or whatever, even though I never want to be seen as, talked about, or mentioned in brand-speak.  I’m tired of the reduction, frankly.  And that’s another impetus if you would behind the 9/1 date.  I’m going to write my way out of that state, adjunctdom, and any other simple humdrum task someone even has the thinnest inclination of assigning me.  I know what I’m deserving of, and I know what I need for my happy summit, and it’s not found in adjuncting, nor other simple entry-level acts.

Oscar Peterson & Milt Jackson’s “Work Song” plays, just over 30 seconds into track and I’m fearless in a way that will surely produce fruit, more than the vineyard blocks, more than what these other writers and bloggers do.  I have to laugh at the “content” of some, and the writing.. don’t even get me started, with its 5th grade consistencies and arrangements.  And me, I’m passed over for bloggers or “writers” like this?  Yeah, that stops today.

Feel like I could take another 10 miles.



A student,

one of the few who showed, said “We’re gonna get you a professor job there, Mike,” referring to how she and he friend are both transferring to UC Santa Cruz.  I felt, and still felt, humbled, inspired, but humiliated.  Why am I not a full-professor?  Why am I not at a UC lecturing?  Enough of that pity talk…  The latte that one of them, ’N’, bought for me has me writing with unusual quake.  Of course I’m a writer.  I can always write, anyone can.  But my profession, the one I want to write about and in which I want to grow and be the best whatever I can be, is teaching.  N’s friend, ’S’, said “you’re so good at it.”

So I start writing lectures, taking notes, notes on what I want to lecture about in 500 or so words, and take these thoughts to the street, to the Road, not just accepting the usualized adjunct path (as I’ve so many other times written).  So my next step, as I noted in my Comp Book in class, just before beginning the meetings with the students, “8-10 pages printed”.  For a book.  About the adjunct life.  About me.  So yes, memoir-y.

Have to think of my next lecture topic…  Modern readers?  The semi-colon?  Kerouac?  Plath?  Hemingway?  My first “official” lecture in the stream, which I yesterday wrote at lunch, over the infernal sounds and voices of a basketball commentary on someone’s laptop in the office, was about self-education, essentially.  Maybe an extension of that.  I so much envy the student and the opportunities they have to grow as thinkers and writers, readers, scholastic people.  I’m a student again.  One more serious than I’ve ever been.  Focusing on the Kerouac quote of life enjoyment, all minutes of life to be embraced and enjoyed.  And learned from!

Students.  I’m a student.  Where I am now, on campus, studying, reading…  Need to clean out my backpack.. shit, I need a new one.  This bag’s seen its last mile, I’m afraid.  Just heard a teacher in one of these hall offices say, “That’s what I’m asking for…” Is that educating?  Making the students provide on paper what YOU as the instructor want?  That’s not how I teach!  Am I doing it wrong?  Hearing this guy talk to the student is beginning to irk me, “…your essay scores are fine…” Then he starts fiddling with number and percentages and indulging the student over grade obsession and addiction, pursuit, losing utter focus on the writing.  Just heard him say it again, “…your grade…I think it’d be worth it to…” This is not fashionable, my newly fanaticized self-assignment to studenthood.  It’ll be everything.. no struggle, no progress, as Douglass said.  I’m catalyzing a new struggle.  For me, my career and family.  I’m returning to the book I started writing at the beginning of the semester, about my age and that I’m still an adjunct.  That’s changing now, from this morning’s interactions.  I SHOULD be at a school like UCS.  And I will.  OH, I will.  I’m a student, not an adjunct, a teacher; I share ideas, write them, and grow.  So here I go.  Taking my Comp Book out, scribbling, pretending I have a paper due.