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Now at Petaluma situated in the Reading Room, from which I haven’t logged in well over a year, not since Fall ’13. But my 1B syll is copied, and now I can collect myself. Three other students in here with me, one definitely studying or doing homework with her laptop open, the other with just a book open (though now she packs, leaves..) and the other, the only male, looks as though he struggles to read from the book in front of him… Before leaving the mainland, I spoke to Michael, a full-timer, in fact one of the fulltimers I cited early with a seemingly elevated lean to him, with the lowered eyelids and bla bla, he actually wrote his disertation on Jack Kerouac, I found out after Anne-Marie introduced us and she said she thought of me when she saw some Kerouac book copies at a Petaluma bookstore and thought “I know someone who might be interested in this.” Michael, to my shame and humility and overall perceptive reshaping is quite kind, extremely well-read, just finished his dissertation last semester and looks tired. Excited to be done but tired. I told him I had, have still somewhat, the PhD bug. He told me only do it if I really want it, no if I feel I have to, and only do it if there’s no charge, if it’s free. I asked him how this was possible and he said that’s what he worked out with, I think, Ohio. He also said it was abusive, petty, among other harsh tags and reprimands– I find it hard to focus now as I’ve been up so long. Have a coffee, one free, I poured for myself in the copy room, first floor of the Pace building (I think it’s called). Class doesn’t begin for another 38 mins, and one hour. But I have plans to keep myself awake with writing and I know I can last and log every sight and feeling here on my again-new grounds. The parking lot, nearly empty. Maybe it’s too early for most and maybe this is just a commuter school, or with a heavy commuter element and/or population.
The coffee cools and I try not to I try to keep with this radicalized pace in my prose. May have to hike across the condensed quad to get another cup. And I will if I have to, but… This morning’s 1A went musically. More energy than I expected from such an early group. But with how tired I am now, after class, after this first meeting which is sure to be short (the 1A this morning lasting about 90 mins, including students that stuck around after session for clarifications, songs, remarks), how will I feel after the 1B? Will I want to return to the Redwood Café as I did in f ’13 for some writing (then doing so when on a layover before an evening 1A), or go home to nap as Alice said I should? I need to stay awake, write, fight the hunger to sleep, and eat– although that couch and the condo’s early afternoon quiet would surely revive me. But then, my café, and the memories still fresh of all those Fillmore cafés up the road from our hotel… Another student enters, definitely a commuter, an older gentleman with a construction/blue-collar character motion and dress (blue jeans) enters, now rises to leave as do the girl with the computer.. what do I do, what do I do? Do I stay here in the Reading Room or walk around the library? But what would I look for?
Logged the poem I wrote earlier, in the mailroom before meeting Michael. I’m quite upset with myself for judging him as I did last semester when I saw him talking to students in his office and talking to other fulltimers. Why do I do that, judge as I do sometimes? Something I’ll work on, like my talking frequency.. if I wrote much of what I voice, like at work for example, I’d have dozens of novels out. And on that noise and note: I need to print something this week– know I’ve said that before but I do. This blog can’t be the full and sole representation of my publishing marks and schemes. No, I will print something, maybe whoso minus Nate’s piece and Amber’s work… Maybe have whoso be an every-other-month release from me, Mike Madigan.. poems and scribbles and sketches, vignettes, short shorts.. whatever. Now I wake, waking up as I didn’t expect to. Alice just messaged me, demanding she pick up little Kerouac so I can sleep. So that’s what I’ll do, go home, rest, re-collect my ardor and fire, allow my Personhood to assess what it has collect on and in this first day of term.

So quiet in this room. Perfect for planning English 1B introduction. Going to advise students, as I did in 1A, to get to know Mr. Kerouac before reading him, have an idea of who you’re about to meet, his writing style and past and loves and perils, everything. And what is Beat? What does it mean to be “Beat”? The girl with the laptop remains as does the guy struggling with his book. He seems to be more connected to his task and less burdened, not moving as much but only to turn the page, and I underline portions of Big Sur to quote today, how JK saw everything as material and wanted to better understand everything and why he was part of that everything. I have to write a letter today, to someone, to either Amber or Nadav, or maybe to an old professor, but who? Gillian? Yes, Gillian, my only ever poetry mentor and idol. She always supported my poetic visions and practices and embrace of music as part of my scribblings, how I recited and went into the lines as I did. Wonder how she’s doing and what else she’s written lately, or published. Just learned she published a book of poems in early ’14, I think. But either way, I should write it now, here in this quiet room before I get too heavy-headed, and with eyelids soaked in exhaustion and all hours collected and pocketed since 4:50-something A.M.