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inward jot

Still, very much, feel the eight miles I ran this morning around the neighborhood after taking kids to school. But no. I won’t let self tire, I won’t let this Mike Madigan today stop, or not produce pages, get closer to finishing the book 39 only 13, now, days at my front. Instructing self away from any impediment, any. With what’s left of my coffee and going over class notes of the final meeting of regular instruction with the English 5 section, my favorite of the term, I’m in meditation, in collect and selection of ideas and directions. Writing like my life depends on it and it does, oh does it ever now. 39. How. Stop, Mike. This is the final draft, there is no rough. On the run earlier I thought about shedding certain realities from my story, forever. I’m nearly there, and when I am fully there, at my There. Here now, and writing, journal pages exposed and class notes staring me down, provoking I teach more, search for more, have a manuscript to submit.

Mood in neutral, I’d say. Still have to finish the essay I started on Monday. I’m a teacher, but more a learner, learning about me, what I’m here to do and what I need jettison. No regrets, only forwards in my Now, no matter how tired I am I’ll continue on my charge at the visual, that story, this story — My thoughts split then come back together, I can barely focus on my sentence, this very line with all in head, with what I want to get done before having to be in the 1A class. These breaks between classes have always been odd to me, how excited I am at the beginning, then how lethargic and self-convincing I am before walking to the second room. And, how I always have to share a space with someone or anchor in a room that could be potentially occupied by either other instructors, or students, or someone. Fuck it, I say to myself. I’m going to work. I’m going to look through my journal for gems, gems of some magnitude. I know they’re there. Not letting self slow, not letting Mike Madigan take any kind of break to eat or rest or get more coffee.

Haven’t written a poem in a few days, or one I can read anywhere, anyway. So that I’ll change in a bit. People enter the room, an older instructor and two of his students saying nothing, their stare conveying nothing looking defeated and confused, annoyed. He stacks some papers and arranges them by slamming them on the table in front of mea couple times, vertically, then staples — hole- punches. Then they leave. I’m left to work. I’m left here with my notes and coffee, what’s left, phone which gets no receptions and learning from the time here, sitting in this chair just before 3pm that the day is alway there to instruct… life with its wonder and wander, constant self-ponder and at-every-turn offers, I have to act.. write… more, more. Stay tireless. We ALL need know our projects and stories more closely. Life is nothing…. We, are everything.