Next day, in Reading Room at PC and

I’m exhausted from day, from morning session, in a positive way, yes, but this morning’s early hour had me wound wrongly, not sure how to describe so but I’m here and ready to write. This morning before class, has a full page written, Comp Book, then almost another full in a fictive letter to Jack Kerouac, an exercise I had the whole class do. And now I’m here, and that same female student at the table in front of me working on something math-associated I’m deducing as she goes back, forth, from calculator to notebook then to book and back to buttons. I sip my coffee, think of the fog outside, the whole drive down to Petaluma, fog like I haven’t seen in months. And now I’m here, tired and looking at these other students and thinking of the young couple I poured for yesterday, the male saying he had a PhD, can’t remember in what, but he also told me he was entertaining being an adjunct, teaching a class here and there. “Interesting,” I remember thinking, as he’s with a normal “square job” (surely one that pays more than my winery gig and the adjuncting combined) wanting to teach, curious about, or very least, as he said, thought it “cool”. Something’s off in the room, in me, in my confidence and ability, I start to doubt, tinker with surrender, thoughts of.. no, no, what am I doing? Look around, everywhere’s invention and reinvention. The lady at the table next to me, also on a laptop, just had vibration from her phone, disturbing everyone, me especially with my mixed state at the moment. And after the 1B, what should I do, just go home and nap, waste whatever portion of days actually ALL mine? Or should I check out that winery on Olivet? This exhaustion I can morph, mold into motivation, I know I can I just have to hold to certain visions and images and thoughts of being free from any industry but me, giving notice to everyone, telling them “I’m off to write,” and that’s it, no more explanation, like the students around me now (esp. the one right at my 12), working for something be it a degree or better job or just self-enrichment and aim, it’s something, it’s ‘It’.
Another sip of the coffee and I’m a bit more staunch and circulating, but not with the fire I know I often hurl. If I go to the winery, I’ll be home probably close to 3, which means I could nap for 90 minutes, maybe. Have to touch 5 pages today, I’ve failed since I mentioned that new goal and marker for myself and this room is giving me space, the collecting and collective and colluding space I need for the five. But today doesn’t count– or should I say, today’s words for yesterday’s count doesn’t count. Now I’m confused, just fiddling with my mess here, my philosophies if I have any, and the Emersonian possibility that I’m a Seer, or one of them, through poetry and through Nature, what surrounds me, now in this Reading Room. One student, male, leaves. His look, confused or disinterested, hard to pin, but he didn’t look content at all. He looked like many of the 1A students before I started speaking, offering my ideas, before we all (Self included) started writing. Should run tonight but I probably won’t. Why? There’s no excuse not to run just as there’s no permission to not write. That’s what I hold myself to. Maybe I’ll go when Alice get’s back from getting Jack, or maybe I should get Jack so she can go run and then I can leave when she returns. Either way, I need a few miles today, though it’ll have to be on that goddamn tread. When I’m tired I overthink, and I’m overthinking everything now, but maybe that’s part of my style and moment molding. Think think.. poetry, words and images across my brow and perception and committing to one thing, writing, like my friend Pippa, a doctor, committed to Oncology– or “Radiation Oncology”. “Forever”, as she said in a social media post. Younger than me, and a doctor. And I feel inadequate but in awe, deeply, and now motivated after another sip of the cooling coffee. Have to plan for 1B soon, not too soon though, but in a little less than an hour. Glad this class is only 90 minutes, opposing the 2 hours of 7AM 1A. I’m drained, I’ll say, but what if I lived in the moment, this moment at this table here in the Reading Room so much that I forget I’m tired– thoughts, readings of Emerson and Kerouac and my own entries and figure I edit nothing, just say ‘woo hoo’ and stick my head out the car as I fly back up 101, to Olivet Road. There’s something about to happen, and I know or don’t know what– so what? That’s always the question, or in it at least: “What’s for homework” … “What’s the duedate” … “What’s your address” … “What’s you book about???” Everything demands the ‘what‘ be solved.. and an idea’s birthed, for 1B.. the WHAT of it all, his time in Big Sur. And then I think, my time in the wine world, behind that goddamn bar, and as an adjunct, not knowing if I’ll eat tomorrow. I’m nearing a thousand, but I feel like I haven’t composed anything, I’m not composed and this project is losing its composure– no lighting of wick or closure, but that’s my nay-sayer speaking, “SHUTUP!” I tell it. Stour about me now, Mon dieu! (Good greif!) I calm, but maybe the coffee’s turning on me again, it always does that when I’m indecisive or complaining, or with complaints in lack of decidedness. Poem from yesterday in my ears, I need to write more and more sketches and the writings people will say “is that part of something bigger or…” to.