Home.  And tired.  Ready for bed like

I haven’t been in years.  Not an exaggeration.  It’s rather candid, that remark.  Had one beer, one 7UP, none of that Zin I opened up last night watching the numbers climb for Trump.  4AM is a possibility I’m thinking, and if I do manage to rise at the cruel hour, I’ll just attack NaNo, get caught up.  I’m hoping.  I don’t know, my head’s in a million different places right now, sitting on this hardwood floor, thinking about how classes went today, again.  I need to call the day.  I’m writing nothing right now, nothing that will do anything useful or meaningful, consequential to this book.

Writing tired isn’t as fun as writing while sipping wine, but you can be more accurate with your expression and intention.  Certainly not as fun as writing with wine in the streams, but more productive.  Same with writing on hunger.  Writing while hungry, as I do in the adjunct office many times is difficult, and not all that enjoyable, but that famine coupled with coffee makes for engaging composition.  But, now, now the writer’s tired.  Good practice for tomorrow morning, if I do wind up waking at 4, or 5.  I’m home.  I’m safe.  I don’t have to listen to anyone talk about it in the Emeritus Halls, or in the checkout line at Safeway as I did a couple hours ago.  I engage in excess, the only vice I have— quiet.  Silence.  Time to self.  No movement other than the fingers across this laptop’s board.

I’ll make coffee in a minute.  Sleep sounding better and feeling better with every time I play the scene in my head, me laying down and letting the right side of my head sink into the pillow.  Pillow…  Sleep…  Not in the mood to be awake anymore.  Wish I could have a cup of the medium roast now.  What would that do to my circuitry and momentum?  Don’t want to find out and I won’t.  The sleep’s idea wins, and wins tremendously.