In the rain is just what’s needed for sense and story, something new, some renewed and due truth.
…part of me disconnection from this. I do still want to teach, and I will, but as I wish to. How do I wish to… with essays, notes, posts, writings that share some reality of not just me but a character doing something, trying to reach There. With class just a touch over 2.5 hours away, I think of my writing spot, Steele & Hops, where I recently had wine and wrote in journal, made notes of day and wine itself. On this morning’s 14-mile trek, where I maintained a per-mile pace I never thought I’d hold, I replayed yesterday in the tasting room. Replayed my life in and with wine. How for the past four or five days or so, I’ve only wanted to write wine—about her, what she’s done to this narrative, and how even with sharing ideas in class whether 1A or 100 I’m deciding the text and topic as I would a wine in front of me, the character in and the voices of and in, the where and how—the metaphysical inference in that creature.
She urges more prose, or poetry, that I blend both. That I have my way with her way and say, that the story and run into that world, here in America and on other continents sipping something looking at something I’ve never seen in any scene, just as I’ve never sipped what’s in that glass, she relays equations and not so much a need for anything to be solved. That would mean a stop, some wall, something blocking the writing and the empirical exploration of MORE. Her facetiae provoke me, to more about what I sip and finding more in that vineyard, more in this stuff and uncomfortably temp’d conference room. She triangulates and then further multiplies her being, her revenant continuously steering me one way then ‘nother in these pages. On property yesterday, it was like a ruling, something was decided, by me though only partially. She instructs this, more of the vineyard on this screen. More of everything that I sip…
taking time to conceive and receive the day that approaches. Of course start with writing…
But as well, more. More of me. More recognition that my office is nearing.. my studio, my workspace. Teaching from more than a community college classroom.
More through day… my core’s true say.
Home from dinner at parents. Last night to self in home. Glass of last night’s red at left and I don’t know if I’ll open that other bottle, a Cab, I had my eye on. Tonight, one of music. Writing by hand, in Germany Journal. Bed earlier than last night. Alarm set for morning. Can settle on a treadmill bit of speed work or a run later in morning from Bennett Valley and into Howarth Park, Annadel. Writing business plan in head for remainder of night. In bed by 11:30, latest. Till then, write poetry in pages, listen to music. I’ve realized this so many times more before, but all in my story must center around and stem from poetry. Which is music, you know I believe and see. Will let my pen talk, do the work not for me but with me. The quiet of this little family home, heater on, wine nearly gone. Going over my life in head after talking to Mom and Dad about family friend that literally just passed, matter of days ago, finding I’m just a passer of ways to know. Or so…. Night telling me to slow, more collect and deconstruct not be so abrupt. I’m home.. not just in this structure, but in poetry, the lines and beats, rhymes and syllable play, but thoughts on a paper tray.
Waiting for an idea, something to shove me one way or another. Maybe I’ll get it on my run in the morning, or later morning, early afternoon. Life, just walking away from us like a like a royal not interested in the common glass. Time just sees through us, not even ignoring us. To ignore is to exert something, some energy or interest or effort. Time doesn’t do that. So, then, I need that Cabernet to write more in this life and clock fray.
Back and forth, one idea to next.
At last I poured, an area less stressed.
Laptop suddenly working. Don’t get it. Doesn’t matter. It’s getting replaced. First day of new semester. Class starts in 4 min, 1 hour. I’ll be in classroom earlier than that, obviously, if there’s not one of those mindless instructors that is in no way aware of the possibility that another teacher may need the room. Introducing narrative, tonight. The singular idea that will dominate the semester. Narrative…. telling stories. Telling your own story. Knowing your story. Just wrote that last sentence into journal. The Germany journal. What will the students this semester be like. I keep wondering but with so much need to know. It will take a while term to know.
No lunching out, today. Must say I’m pleased with my discipline and poise, for once. Need at least 2k for new laptop. Just updated the OS, here in office. See if this does anything. Doesn’t matter like I said. Quiet in the adjunct cell… good to be back on campus, in Professor Mikey mode. Sharing ideas, knowing students and the student experience better. Put quarters in pocket to go get coffee. Could use a coffee now. Beats always drink coffee, no matter time of day or how it may impact sleep. Who cares. Off to get a cup. Don’t worry, small.
6:15. Back in office. With decaf. Decaf. I ordered decaf. Mainly from being charged and directed in energy enough from today itself, training new hire and now in my element of elements sharing ideas in the classroom.
Everything out on this desk, in this shared office like every other semester on the first day. 17 minutes for computer, in whatever it’s doing. Who knows if it’ll work— WHY DO YOU KEEP THINKING THAT? You’re shedding it anyway, that devil thing you call a writing tool and think a necessity.
Another note in journal, for class— Your decisions in how you read and write, and immediately write from your experiences, or write your story, make loud your thoughts in the present.
Been writing in more than one place for the ’19 story. Oh well I say to myself with another glass of sparkling, Jackie over there playing on the tablet my mom and dad bought him this past xmas. Nothing I’m writing lately I’m liking. Certainly not loving. So what’s the bandage for that? One part of me says just write free, with less shackle and inner-hassle. What’s that mean I don’t know so I re-focus on Jack. The day he and I have had, his sister too. She now off with wife and wife’s friend and wife’s friend’s daughter to Target to get who knows what. Kerouac has some inner dialogue with himself regarding the game, if it’s a game or some scholastic, learning program…. “Jack, what are you doing? What are you playing with?” He gives a bit of a mumble but I’m not convinced that was directed at me. He goes back to doing that, whatever that is. He rests the right side of his face in his right palm, right elbow on right inner-thigh as he sits on floor, legs crossed and lightly locked. We just spent the past couple hours watching football. Playoffs. Or postseason. Chicago versus Eagles, in Chicago. Eagles pulled it by a point. Just one. I of course was on CHI’s side for various reasons—none of which I’ve told you so I guess I shouldn’t write “of course”—and so was Jack. Both us disappointed in the result. But we move on. He with his game, or learning program, me with words and this morning before our together time, and time with his sister, a 7-mile run which I now feel.
Hoping to get some reading in, tonight. Hemingway, Coelho, Plath, Hughes…. Not sure I’ll touch all four books, but one of them I’m rather confident. Need to write more poetry, read Hughes more, and other poets like Cummings, Plath of course, Yeats, and from that collection of several poets I was gifted years ago. Today teaches me to not work against existing momentum, ever. What you want to do with the day is one matter, what you’re able to do and what you can do with what is present is quite another write.
Writing everything down…. Jack, quite poised and careful how he touches that screen. Face Ibn right palm, again. He says nothing to me on his own, and I don’t want to break his connection to his current action so I just push these buttons while I look at him. My little boy who daily loses his littleness to time— Time, that fucking animal, devouring all of us as a matter of duty and functionality, normalcy. Why I deplore normalcy, the patterns. The expected. The unavoidable tumult of the clock. I look at reflection, mine, and can see changes in my face, around the mouth and eyes. Forty this year— fuck. Have I lost some of my awareness and writing ability? Am I starting to fade? Looking over at little Kerouac, my little beat. He’ll keep me young. His sister, too.