Well this is lovely. Woken by earthquake, I guess a 6.0 or 6.1 just outside of American Canyon.. I know, I’m Californian and I hate or and are scared easily by shakes, tremors and of course bigger ones, what’s wrong with me. I remember this happened one time during that summer class I taught at Chabot 2006, I told them to write through it so that’s what I’ll do I guess, I’ll try. When it’s light and there’s an earthquake, I’m more composed, but now I’m on edge, expecting an attack or something. Should try and get back to sleep but I can’t, not even going to try, sure the be long day at winery– ugh all I can say. Sipping sparkling water, surprised how much I can feel the wine from last night, didn’t even drink that much.. up at bizarre hours like this makes my thinking spiral and circle usefully, for manuscripts’ sake I hope. Don’t think I’ll run tomorrow, and if I do not far then. Time now, 4:04. Maybe this quake was for me, to wake up in more than one way, okay then, I’m awake, now what.. wish I could make myself some coffee but I’d hate to disrupt little Jackie’s sleep again. Poor little bug said, as I rushed to his room, “What happened?” His first quake. Certainly not his last if he says here in CA with Ms. Alice and I– shame, don’t think about that, not now or for years.. my little one leaving.. I’m not strong enough. Why do I always have to be strong or so stern or puffed, ‘cause I’m a man, the man of the house? That’s not fair.
4:08a. now I yawn more and am tired of waiting for an aftershock. Tomorrow, throw myself to the coffee, let it ravage me and push me to write and shoot photos wherever, and speaking of I should charge my better camera, take a walk at lunch if I get one, capture what I can. But I’m on the mountain, will probably have to do 3 tours, so no lunch. I sink into frustration and embittered bites with this– no lunch? First, not legal, and second why should I have to do three? Nevermind.. getting tired, should try to sleep. This quake meant for me, possibly, believable or not that’s what I’m gathering, like my own geological and metaphysical survey. No response from what calls internally– no poetry or journalism or short story, just angst. Volcano painting in word tussle. Hustle, write faster, finish the novel, a quake only I feel says. So I go back to sleep. I’d sleep under the Golden Gate if I could, and just not count anything even remotely connected to time or obligation. Needle moving…