settling down, slowing, readying for bed. Such a responsible thing to do. But I’m going to meditate a bit further on the day, think of that walk at lunch, the pause when off the clock sipping the Chardonnay, looking down-valley. I was collected, just talking to the breeze that encouragingly accosted me. IT, was auditory poetry, like a saxophone, like paintbrush percussion about my receptive drums. I have the same cosmic speak here in the Autumn Walk Studio. I hear myself laughing, but not heard to others, just to me— me, my own audience, and it’s a laugh I need to hear from me, to again faith in self, to know I’m Human, that I can be happy, that I can travel, that I can answer a whim’s grin. Now I realize time shouldn’t matter, that it doesn’t matter, that I need to just write and throw myself into the plainest of moments and make them growl in antithetical inviolableness. I can’t settle, I can’t just be put, put anywhere, in any role, not when my thoughts are going this fast— huh, you’d think I was sipping my medium roast (which I just brewed, 2 cup, set into tumbler for morrow) rather than this ’12 Nicole’s. Yes, I opened one, as I don’t have any “everyday wine” to pop. Shit, need to go shopping. But I don’t want to spend a ton on wine. Need get new clothes, put me more in the adornment of a fashionable professor, and not so I can look good to others no so I can be pleased myself with my own shell, which I haven’t of late been. No issues to speak of, just want to look nice, and only to me, seriously. Today’s set, not bad— Dutcher Crossing grey/marble/granulated hue shirt, paired with my usual khakis, my black loafers. Shirt I don’t have much qualm with, but pants and shoes I much do. I’ll address this more in future lines just now know I’m shifting with my attire, intentions, and “image”.
In the adjunct cell and I immediately started grading the English 100 papers when I sat down with this cannon of coffee. Now the adjunct takes some notes in the “holstered journal”, as I mention it to my students. Not sure where to go with this sitting just know I’m back on campus after taking Monday off, enjoying a day of writing and Self time to measure and contemplate, further deconstruct realities and possibilities. Dickinson said something like “I dwell in possibilities.” I do, too, but I want to more dwell and act from made actualities. Something immensely gratifying that I brought about, and I’m right there, I’m right there.
Hear doors opening and closing in the hallways. I’ll say, for some reason today, I’m so glad to be on campus, or ‘back’ on campus. Ready for both sections, but I’m not sure they’re ready for me and the energy I’m about to catapult at them. Time, 11:42AM, and I have more than enough time to meditate before class and collect myself here with these exposed Composition Book and Carpe Journal pages. ‘Nother sip of coffee and I think more of what I want, but maybe I should stop, think outside of the box, right? Noticing now, and of course at my old ass age, that I continue to have the same reality in certain respects and confront the same results on account of my practices don’t change that much. Well, now they are, will— no, ARE.
Uncomfortable in this chair, so maybe I should walk around the library till I find one of those chairs by the window, or one of the windows on the third or, better, fourth floor where I can see the entire SRJC world right there, write about the seasonal change and how today’s cooler than the last three angrily heated installations. I’m not stopping for anyone or any thing. NEVER. When the alarm on my phone sounds (set for one hour, to get all my prep and grading done), I’ll head for the bibliothèque. And I’ll go right upstairs. Being in this office is much part of the problem with experience excess similarity in existential momentum. (Wrote that down, “Existential Momentum”, for classes, then a sentence: “You don’t like it? Change it!”)
Another sip… Thinking of the wine I had last night, that Zin from Truett Hurst. How it was loud, both with the jammy thing and alc’, but somehow harmonizing and melodic, musical and narrative. I’ll write about it, and another Zin I took home yesterday from Dutcher, tonight. More wine writing, from me… NEEDED. Again, change that momentum. Wine and its industry doesn’t have to be the fang-set its in the past been. With this voluminous yay-saying yodel of mine across the page in recent months, I’ll change everything about how it registers with me, and fellow industry characters.
Alarm sounded, 11:51AM, but I don’t want to get up. And why should I? This moment’s mine, right? That’s just it, though, Mikey… Make it more your own by leaving. Going to the library. Be in the presence of goal-chasers, the driven young student who wants to transfer, graduate then go to grad school, or begin their career. Student noting me a few weeks ago, about how she graduated law school and passed the state bar on her first try, emailing me thanking me for all I’d done for her. How she had a 1-point-something GPA at SSU then took my class and was somehow enlivened beneficially. That’s the feeling I want to experience, over and over, over. Repeated. Yes that’s selfish, but it’s from helping others which makes me think it’s not as selfish as other endeavors. I could be wrong, but I’m just writing freely. Maybe too freely.
This office, which I ALWAYS call the ‘adjunct cell’, is more freeing than I credit. Why? I’m liberated from the commotion in the hall. I’m all to myself, thinking for myself and the benefits of others, most immediately my students, and I can just collect. Like I do on a run, after some brutal stretch in the sun or some uphill scuffles and then the ground evens, or is slightly downhill. You collect, you recover, you sprint on. (Wrote that, or some derivation in the Carpe as well.) Right now this isn’t an office, or a cell, or even a room. It’s a ship, taking me from one “possibility” to the next actuality. Reward, rewarding my Self by pushing, moving with agility and unusual acumen. Forgot I was uncomfortable in the chair. Well, actually, now I’m not. In fact, this is the most relaxed I’ve been all day.
11:59AM. Now into the afternoon. You know, I’ll just head to my classroom. My plan for the day is to not ask for too much student participation. Do most of the speaking, presenting. And not to show off, or gloat, or be too aggressive with my young colleagues, but to throw self back into character. I have no regrets about taking Monday off, taking little Em to the doc, but it takes me out of character a bit, frankly, makes me lose momentum. I won’t have some lazy, gradual immersion back into instruction, but a forced placement of my educator self back at the front of that room. I realize how stretched and wandering my thoughts are, but that’s enjoyed by the author. From last night’s Zin sips to taking the babies to school this A.M., to me now readying for detachment from this shared bureau (office, in French, I just learned), to the walk to Maggini Hall where I teach the 100 class… all purposed. All purposeful. Free now, which is why I stayed in this once-odd chair, where I have to sit up straight but not too straight otherwise the back hurts— and the back part is too far back to lean back… But I don’t care. The moment’s mine, as is the page and my class, the students’ eyes and hopefully ears. New day, new story, new fold, new form. Carpe… CARPE!
Nearing lunch. Not sure if I’m in a writing mood, from how busy it’s been. But I was able to capture some valuable stills on the crush pad, with tons of grapes landing today. Hot outside, possibly too hot for walking so I may just come back to this desk, share my boredom with you. Lucky you! But I’m not bored, not at all, not with all that’s around me unfolding and developing. Through head, a ceaseless to-do list. Not even a list anymore, more like a stomping dinosauric docket for me to catch, catch up on. How will I do that? Simplify, everything made more simple.
Words for lunch. I’ve decreed. If I’m at the desk it could be perceived I’m available. Maybe I should just wait till day’s end, no writing now, just let it all compile and collect. How I get to evenness. Back from a bathroom walk and I was tempted to go out onto the crush pad and photograph fruit in the bins, cold soaking in the sun, maybe take some video of the guys raking fruit into the crusher/de-stemmer, but I walked away. Out of character for me. This writing and tireless father need act more outside pattern, if I sense I’m about to do something I always do then don’t do it.
Clocked out for lunch, but the writing father’s staying put. Right here at desk. Not speaking to anyone, and not to be rude! But rather to immerse the writing father in his words, in his work. Not budging from my thesis of working harder than I think I can, get more done than I did the day prior. How I spend the lunch, soused in my sentences. Too hot outside for a vineyard walk. One after work, though. Have to do one a day, at least. Ultimate and encompassing freedom demands I seek nothing new. I have all I need for my idyllic, right here, in my story.
Okay… So the idea yesterday, that I mentioned here on bottledaux, was selling real estate. I know, I’m laughing too. Why that picture and possibility if you could call it that leapt into my perception is far beyond my current reasoning, at this desk. “So what…” you say. What do you mean ‘so what’… It’s gone, now. Selling real estate? No. I’m holding with my goals. Staring out the window in front of my as I so many times do throughout the day, only antagonizes my dreaming, day or night dreaming really doesn’t matter— Could use a glass of Chardonnay or anything right now. Lunch, huh. Not for this writing father. Tomorrow on campus, then day next back here at the desk.
Say you’re more cursed than lucky if you’re still reading. But, the working father, or mother, any parent knows what this is, only wanting to do to provide all and more for your children and your family’s entirety but you can’t think nor act fast enough. You’d do anything, you’d work any amount of hours. You refuse to slow, and your certainly won’t stop. So what else to do but keep moving, keep processing the ideas like grapes on a crush pad. Who knows what results. Maybe something blissful, something unusually piquant. Maybe the next time you sit at your desk you’ll be a different You.
Waking early, hopefully, for some writing, planning, something creative. Or just write about the 4AM hour. Or 5. I’d take 5, honestly. Will be in the office tomorrow. Want to taste some wines at day’s end, if I can. Each one being poured in the tasting room, and take wildly reflective notes on each. See what each says to me and if I can translate them differently than I have before. The more Newness, the better. The better I’ll be, my writing will be. Too tired at this point in the day, and after that 7.2 miler, for a lengthy piece, or narrative, reflection, anything. And if anything, at this juncture, I just want to be lazy. Maybe research a bit, but not do much. What else can I do right now if not be totally honest. I want to be lazy. I don’t want to write. I’ll write tomorrow, at some ungodly hour, EARLY.
They stop NEVER.