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from inward jot

“The random ?’s”, I wrote in my semester journal while talking with one of the students. Going over ideas with them, how to build their essays and they look to me for answers and I offer them questions in hopes it will catalyze a solution or two. And my nascent reiterations of teaching and writing more essays, exploring ideas and maybe one day what I’ve always wanted and seen myself doing, teaching Philosophy and English at Stanford, and other places. Now in conference room in English Department’s zone, reviewing with self what I wrote in semester journal, everything from “disruptive inquiry” to “Repetition”.

Told I have to leave the conference room as the English Club was to have a meeting in there in 10 minutes, the full-timer told me. She told me I was free to enjoy the room till then. Ten minutes from. “Wonderful, thanks.” I thought. Instantly packed and went to library. Found one table on fourth floor, but too hot. So I walked back down all three flights and here to the faculty/staff lunch or break room. Could have done the flights again and again, after this morning’s 10k+ run. I’m so eased and free and even more so composed after the meeting with students. Asking those galactic and destiny-begged questions, and now here in a room with no one else and I prefer it so but if someone enters then they a part of my story become. My experience, another word from the English 5 meetings. What experience does to us all, what we learn from experiences positive and not and if we choose to bring ourselves to a position of not only learning and appreciating, but a more whole practice of observation. Today, 1 day and 2 weeks before turning 39. Just a bunch of numbers, I tell myself, and told myself before getting on the treadmill this morning for my miles. The room teaches me to use all this time, all of it, it’s its own flight of sorts, traveling from one Me to another.

My questions, random and not, disruptive inquiries inwardly directed and what I am after them. Where I’m going… after 39 stampedes 40. That number. That number that so many, even my literary hero Kerouac dreaded and if not then certain was climatically aware of its inevitability. Writing in this room by self, after being sent away and then me sending myself from that hot library corner, I stumble upon truth, more turns of truth to which I have no choice but to react. Walking to the library I heard one kid say to another something about a “philosophy” as he put it dictating your can do whatever you want become whatever you envision. Why wouldn’t a human, any, adopt and embrace and actuate such sight? A question not so random, “What will I be, and WHERE, in a year?” Writing the answer in semester journal, “Writing, traveling.” Easy enough. Ask yourself something… see what happens. Running this morning and vowing not to have even the most microscopic sip of wine till Saturday, and make a writing project of, this Me sees a new identity, a Mike Madigan that I’ve always known but never taken the time to better understand and conceptually explore, deconstruct, record.