from a journal

Notes to self, for today, what I’m regarding very much as a class, a lecture to me. Then lecture from the day to students approaching. Submitting grades this morning, technically a but under 8 hours late, I said to self, “Yes, now, now is when it has to become what you see it being, what you know your story should be.”

Teaching self to teach self, again. My personal legend if you would, is all centered around learning, teaching, writing and words, teaching and others’ words, pages, how we learn from them. Joan Didion and her book, Year of Magical Thinking, how she wrote it and what caused her to write it. Death of her husband… Wish I had the ms on me, but don’t. Have Cork Dork, instead. But even that, could be, should be studied especially by me being the wine bloke I am. Last night with a Zin, and the Zin educating me on my sister-in-law’s words and urgency of writing about wine. And that one time I had dinner with Dad at Monti’s, where he asked me what I’d rather do, write or teach for the rest of my life. He knew and still knows, anyone who knows me knows, the answer before I voiced, WRITE. Then write about wine, you like doing that, he reasoned and further realized. I know, I know… And I write on learning and knowledge, on knowing Now, as I do wine. All the dynamics, all the intricacies of the scene I’m in. You learn from that, you learn from the wine, you learn from the winery, its home.

And now, this morning, I learn from this, all of this. Some realizations I can’t write as I know some are reading, or could be reading, and even more than that want to save it for a book. One of the next books, after Thought, the book I just finished but haven’t even thought about editing. Then I remember what Didion wrote and how she wrote it. About love, death, about life and how it can take whatever turn it wants at any time, whenever time, and for however long. So write Now, writing in the now right now and don’t be concerned with editing or polishing or appearance, reflection from some buzzing floppy-thought reader. Just write, and don’t excessively deliberate. Don’t second-guess or re-submit aims. Just sprint toward the sight, toward gems and more understanding of self.

Latte at right. Barely touching it since arriving. Too into these thoughts, these aims for the day and the new month. My approach, with a certain means of measuring, and attention to a timeline but not so much worrying about time itself or what it does. The nook, the office, me and where I am and why I’m here. I understand it all, now. Finally. At fucking 40. But I dismiss that concept. The one of age…. ME, I’m the topic, I’m the imperative, the nexus and nucleus of understanding… the composition of the bridge to get me There, to my There.

Life, and its righting loom, death, making me think. Now. Where I am, here, alive. So write like I’m alive, and not just writing to write.