Tag Archives: me

me now

28 Feb

New writing space as both adjunct coop and conference room were occupied.  No complaints.  Lovely, I thought.  I need some newness today.  Newness, always to be capitalized.  Never go against the moment, I remember I offered to students a while back.  This room, a quasi-dining room or break room, no lights which I love and a view of Elliott Avenue, all the students going in and out of this cafeteria building.  If someone walks in, I’ll take it in as part of the scene.  On break till I start my prep for next class but I don’t want to think about that.  My only focus now is this breath, the one after it, the in-between bites of the Chinese food from the caf’.  Wish I wouldn’t have ordered it but I did from hunger delusion.  Look outside to moving bushes, tree.  Think the rains near.  Would love to watch some drops, now.  I wait, though.  I meditate in this strange room.  What else does this room feel like?  Like a dentist office’s waiting room, kind of.  Or the doctors office’s waiting lounge area where we used to take Jack.  Or my high school, one of the Bio’ rooms, or labs.  Not sure what it makes me think of but it makes me recall all facets of my life.  I’m furthered into my collection and meditation.

Now I don’t know what I’m thinking.  Just that I’m thinking, about when I was a student at the community college.  Foothill.  The walk up those stairs, and I all the classes I took.  Years ago, but I’m there again.  This new start with this new perspective and approach, all my new projects and how I see things in this wild yay-say.  Done my lunch off you could call it that, now I throw self deeper into the collection.  With class in just over an hour and me in the room in about, well, 40 minutes, I intensify my meditation and collection.  What am I looking for… what do I want… how will I get it… thoughts of that speed and geography.  And I know just I’m headed for.  No need to continue but I have composition to that degree and key.

Look outside at traffic and see people leaving then pulling in.  Students pass but in less numbers than a bit ago.  Ruminating in this new room, this cafeteria tangent, this side quarter.  Can’t believe no one’s walked in to disrupt my sitting.  Sipping my Ginger Ale, looking up at a board meant to have messages and ads posted, but only one.  Something about some event on campus.  I don’t read for too long as I don’t have any interest in doing anything other than this, this freewrite, freetype.  Five minutes after when I should have stopped for class prep.

53 degrees outside my phone says.  Should just stay here, ditch since I’m a student again.  They’ll find me, I’m sure.  One of them.  Someone from the department or from class.  I guess I just throw self so far into this sitting and thought stream that I lose where I’m going.  But it’s free, oui?  No limitations.  Liberating.  Liberated.  With the breaths and moments, never against.


Between classes. Sorting through

5 Feb

papers and wanting to do something different for next class, so the 1A-ers can feel more from the meeting.  Thinking of separating from the Plath chats for a moment or two.  Getting to know more about the students, and the student experience and story.  Eating some peanut butter-filled pretzels from the break room, and … that’s my lunch.  That’s me, now, in the conference room as I always am and writing to pass time but to as well collect.  Tomorrow, to other life, the business life.  But here, now, I’m present.  I’m a teacher.  Learning from students and being taught by them more than I conventionally teach them.  To me, teaching has always been learning, and re-learning.  Where teaching becomes flawed or weak, or “bad”, is when the educator either forgets how to be educated or thinks their self, plainly, is past it.  You’re always learning, regardless of how many years you’ve been doing anything.

Between classes, with all this stuff around me, no this table and on the bookshelves and what be, I collect, to self better connect.  I want to feel more from the meeting, more from the 90 minutes we’re together.  I already know where I’m going with the meeting, writing out a plan, more or less.  Think I may need something to eat, especially if I’m going for a run later.  Deciding… deciding what to do, pretty much the entire nuclear makeup of my English 5 meeting.  Deciding I’ll post to blog, then walk to caf’ and get something to eat, something small… life of a teacher, always clutter and always a heavy bag, always grading and always, always planning.  Always LEARNING, the only way I can be.  And I’m learning, that I have to eat to be my most successful functioning self, much I try to ignore the hunger, today, now, it me hits.  And hard.  So, picking up all this clutter, and taking off.

20:51.  Day’s end. 

30 Jan

Photo on 1-29-18 at 9.01 PMOn floor and thinking over day.  What I want from tomorrow, and trying to make self relax and not overthink what I’m currently entertaining and visualizing.  But I can’t help it.  That’s a consequence of passion.  Offered to 1A class this evening to know your self-teaching style, as I’m always reminding them that they are their best teachers.  And, equally crucial, know your learning style.  I reflect and react to such an idea, an extension of Bob Coleman, the best teacher I’ve ever had (next to Dad) at SSU… he used to urge me to stay in research and work form, one time telling me about a time where he went to Germany for a single document, for something he was working on.  We all should be so dedicated to our projects, mad to explore and bizarrely passionate about our creative.

Have you ever had one of those days where you just see things, people and events and what you’re doing, with more believability, and poetry?  It just makes more sense?  Do you know what I’m intoning?  Have you felt it?  That’s where I am.  It started with the morning’s run, after taking the little beatniks to school.  Not I’m in school, I always am.  Learning from these days as we always should, and love the passion consequences.  Teaching self, and today more than other days I have a delightedly beaming student.

Up early, but

27 Jan

not early enough.  Wanted to get in a few miles but, as intoned, not up enough early for the distance with which I wanted to start my new pattern.  Tonight, I tell myself.  So no complaining about how long the workday was–  Not to self but note to everyone wanting to ignite new habits and ways, work toward something.  I swear, I could kick myself right now, but that will do nothing, literally nothing or something tremendous, that being keeping me from doing anything forwarding today.  Move on from the mistake, don’t put this under any self-depreciating microscope.  Keep moving.  Till tonight.  My goal– RUN. As many miles as I can.  Begin the new meter and tempo.  Learn from this failure, and it is a wee failure even though I hate that word and it stings knowing I’m associated with it this morning.  But, that’s what I need.  That’s propelling, that’s helpful.

Made coffee, first sip hotter than hot. Good… moving me closer to tonight where I put speed at whatever I want. And tomorrow morning, up so early everyone knowing me will think… huh, wow, he did it, or ‘he can actually do it’.

We need to painfully push ourselves if we’re to achieve something abnormally great.  We need to see excuses as points of failure… be harsh with ourselves.  The saying, “You are your toughest critic.” or whatever, should be edited to, and will be edited by me for me to “You are your most unforgiving, meticulous, and vicious critic. Watch all your steps.” ‘Nother sip, and I’m awake.  Could get in some push-ups. I guess… I can, I do and did.  15 then another set in a minute. Today isn’t like others I feel. It won’t be.  Today, we test ourselves… let’s wildly and harshly test ourselves today, mes amies… let’s get ourselves somewhere. Let’s inventory every action today so at day’s end we can not just say we did it but SEE that we did it. KNOW, we did it.  Let’s enjoy that sensation rather that think to self, “If only I would have….” No, you did.

Your mood will be something you’ve never felt pulse through your circuitry, at day’s end.  But you have to start now.  So, if your having a cup of coffee, or reading the paper, or wasting time just scrolling through shit on your phone, change gears!  Accelerate in directions different… 15 more.

Better than the last 15.  Keep getting better…. force yourself, fellow self-critic, to be in a ceaseless and tireless storm of improvement.  Don’t settle for any kind of stall or step-back. Accept only elevation increases and multiplied expansion in character and story.  But start right now… NOW.  This breath is where you go there, get you to your There.  This is more than a morning, for me, you, us… this is a story-shock, turning the ship not around but to heading new…. to the truest and most found and creative of YOU’s.  I didn’t wake when I wanted, but am I ever awake and aware and a pursuer, NOW.

Prompt—  Write where you are, right now, and everything in your scene.

21 Jan

Sitting in one-person sofa chair, looking around out of corners, eyes, two men in two sofa seats in front of me, talking about something intense or serious, middle-age man-y— younger couple right, sitting next to each other and not in front of the other, table blocks their faces so I can’t tell mood.  Don’t need to know.  I imagine them talking about moving in together, talking about marriage one day possibly, and how both act like that’s what they want to do but neither is sold on the idea.  I assign them identities and wishes, morning routines and coffee orders.  He with a regular coffee while she gets her usual, a venti latte something, with a little vanilla and something I’ve never heard of.  She orders those kinds of drinks where you’re standing behind them in line and thinking, “What is that?” Or “What does that mean?”

Large group of people, at longer larger table, talking with each other like they meet here every Sunday for some discussion routine, where they talk about politics, believing everything that the other utters is vulnerary, that it will heal.  There is a discernible leader, he speaks like his words and syllables are ideological anecdotes the world has never seen.  I can nearly hear him over this beat now playing.  I try to tune him out, but it’s infecting my scene.  Volume up… and I return to the young couple whose faces are censored by the horizontal expanse of a table.

Then there’s me, here in this chair writing about them and thinking about the day, after this Windsor Starbucks stop.  What will I do and why.  Why.  Why is my question, this semester.  Not a question but a statement begging more inquiry into self and what I want from this sitting.  Reminded I’m in control, but at time’s pleasurable play plate.  I look up and the man whose face I can see nods and shakes with everything his friend proclaims, if he’s proclaiming anything.  A coffee shop, stop, spot, more than a spot on a map but a temple, of lives and mornings, nights-before, healing, people, lives that intersect with other lives accidentally and with measure.

“…and after’s not bad,” a lady at the long table says.  Tempted to take out phone from right ear but that would reveal too much, tell too much.  Far beyond what my professors warned me against concerning exposition.  Everything is here, everything of our story, collective and individual.  Life, more than short.  This store makes me again interrogate self, why waste any time.  On anything.  With any character that doesn’t contribute positively to the experiential map.  What could she have been talking about, though.  Part of me has to know.  After what?  Some trial, some test, some struggle.  Before and after, like before I arrived here and now that I’m in this one-character sofa.

I zone out, staring out the window at the people waiting in their cars for the drive-through.  What does he order?  Probably a coffee like the other guy.  He has a hood on.  That’s why.  Must work construction.  Probably lives close by and commutes to Santa Rosa or Petaluma.  He looks up, sees me, more than likely wonders what I’m doing.  One thing we have in common.


18 Jan

Tell yourself today that your thoughts are the most valuable in your world.

Write results.  Re-read.

Delight in your renewed sight.

2018 Lit

30 Dec

Early to write, but in another room.  Collecting thoughts and musings, dreams and plans for the year new approaching.  Giving self a different spiel.  I deserve it.  We all deserve something new for the new year but we have to be the gifters if we’re to receive anything, if we’re to go anywhere.  In this room, quiet before business opens, I just sit and write, but more so see.  See what’s in front of me, what’s at the 12, but still studying what’s at 6.  In this new year, we ought live more madly, more creatively… more of our own song and rhythm.

While frustrated this morning, waiting for the ice slab on windshield to just bloody go away, my inner-math started to talk to me, in some unknown tongue.  It ordered that all math, all calculations need remain simple.  There’s no need or reason or reasoning to complicate.  Ever.  What we need to get to where we desire be, is already present, and immediately.  Proximally.  Two days left in 2017, and I plan.  I see, envision, don’t make some trite and expected banality cascade.  Rester amoureux du moment. (Stay in love with the moment.)  And always.  Just be in every blink and breath, second and step.

The building makes odd noises, the fruit flies fly all around me, asking me to join, “Don’t wait for the new year, take flight now!” This one says.  I will… I’m off, aloft.  Just soaring and singing around the la pièce like I have no cares.  And I don’t.  Only aims that aren’t even really aims, just destinations on a more aggrandized road.  I’m … at a loss, with this breath set.  So I rest, and then am again off.  The fruit flies antagonize me more, landing on left ear and ping-ponging back and forth across this lit surface.  Type type type—  I go with more BPM and RPM, elevating my EKG, I’m sure.  Coltrane for me plays and I play for these little buzzers as they entertain me, motivate me to ignore them then make integral in story at same.  A numerical and beneficial, pedagogical intersection.

This is early to write, but as well late.  08:52.  Should have been up at 4-something, like that former student, waking every day at something cosmic like 03:45.  Something.  And here I am, early to work but late to keys.  Late to this morning that only wishes to contribute to my education.  The flies bother now, tell me to move, tell me to go to the office…. “Why?” I demand.  They offer nothing.  Do I fight and ground stand or relocate?  Gifting myself resolution.  I’m not going anywhere.  PAS MAINTENANT! (NOT NOW!). Keep with my moment before a workday… gifting self that.  We need gift ourselves more, spoil ourselves more… be bigger fans of our own self, our own work.  Why not.  Regularity and settling in predictability is debilitating.  Maybe this is an hortative inward jot, that if we settle, if I settle—with, in, on, or for anything—I’m doomed.  Yes.  That’s it.  As exaggerative as it intones, it’s prophetic in truth.

Sitting and writing.  I gift self this.  This mocha that ran a writer $6.05.  Steep, and certainly not a necessary expense, but it was a regalo to moi.  Sip, and more thoughts… more thoughts of this new year—  And not just what I want, what I’m going to bloody DO.  Blog more, record everything, be with my little beats more, write more, submit more, sell more, build my story and business and smile everyday at the once-cynicism-storm of a Beatnik.  No… only now, at this age—But what does age matter? It intensely does NOT.—am I seeing.  A seer.  A poet of poets, in my paginated reverberation of self… reciting to and with the fruit flies who now stand back as if to listen to my verses, this morning’s track that I recite over a Davis tune.  Now they fly with more nearness and Newness, wanting to embrace the writer and cheer “Merci!” For my early arrival and manuscript clock-in.  MY own folktale… written for my kids and me and anyone seeing something at their 12’s periphery.

09:04.  Impulse… impulse.  Impulsive.  Be more of that, I tell myself.  And so does Coltrane, Hutchinson, Jazz itself… me in my time, us in ours.  For your new year, don’t see it as a new year, but a leap to intensification.  All efforts.  And your “There” need not be a There.  It’s already in your story.  If you see yourself somewhere, you’re already partially there.  Now, in ’18, complete the manuscript.  Your story.  Your book.  And keep writing.

Needing to focus more on my typing I wave arm, tell the flies to sit down, let me recite, let me walk up and down the vineyard rows in my head and sip Cabernet in a Paris café with my notebook.  There’s too much going on, and then not enough.  Notable scuttle from me, this A.M., withy backpack on the chair next to me, like it’s listening to.  Just DO.  No more wishing, wishlisting, dreaming or envisioning, or hoping or grieving for some element’s absence.  Now, we light wicks.  We recite.  We live in poem assemblage.  Picture I took this morning of the ice with more more thesis, more narration.  It won’t just melt, you have to be meditative, use the time and don’t just wait.  Log thoughts… be dire and diarist… write… don’t wish.  Be fire.  Melt anxiety’s ice and the putrid kettle of normalcy.

Blaze, blaze.  Impulse’s gems and stanzas tell us that this new year is the front door.  Welcome in.  What you’ve seen for self.  Inside.  But, mindful.  Be more than mindful and know you have to maintain this new palatial page.  Wonder how you arrived… you.  From tireless treks.  You’re the gifter, recipient, and now keeper.  I collect again.  Solving equations I thought just over and past me, crazily.  More than a meditation, but appreciation.  For this.  This new year, for us, for me, for the flies and the quiet room.  I’m springing and sprinting, singing into ’18.  Why not.  I have the opportunity to so DO.

And it’s deserved.