Taking a break from NaNo project for a bit. Just want to write, in a free spree of me. Will have it done by November, the ACTUAL NaNo month. Tired, I think both from early wake, that I didn’t sleep well last night and having run over eight miles yesterday on lunch. Today has been nonproductive yet incredibly frenzied…. BNI meeting this morning then rushing down to Petaluma for training my first client on new phone systems. Which, I don’t know, makes me smile and giggle a little, for some reason. I didn’t do the training. The person who did, Will, was incredible. Really into his material and instruction, and I thought he did great. What makes me laugh is that this company is so bizarrely generous and wonderful that we offer a complimentary training session, which can last as long as the client wants. I’m not an evangelist, per se, but no other telecom company does that, or does like we do to my knowledge.
4:02pm. Should leave. Need to get here early tomorrow morning, get caught up on stuff. Have a lunch tomorrow at noon, then the rest of the day is the rest of the day. Still haven’t sold shit this week, but have held appointments. I am setting calendar dates with more regularity, which is a correct and promising step.
Can’t shake this tired. Need to write more poetry, like that one student in my 1A section, Frankie…. One piece at Steel & Hops. OR more. So much shit to grade. Just need to relax, have time for me. Poetry, wine, my usual seat at S&H. Be Hemingway, be Kerouac, Sedaris, Plath, Hughes. Going to get another legal pad, and I said I wouldn’t do that. But I will. Just this one last time. Heard one of the trainers say, “I need to get out of here.” She does? What about me? Sending EOD to Mark, and I’m bouncing out of here like an astronaut in even less gravity than the moon.
EOD sent. Post-it’s fucking everywhere on this desk. Why is it always messy here. Also, makes me laugh. And at my SELF. Will get legal pad on way out. Don’t put it in backpack, Mike… you’re notebooks always get battered when in there. Need more music in my story, and the music I write, verse, has to be on clean, non-crumbled sheets.
Starting to wake up. Wait, am I? Breakfast burrito at a nice little café in Berkeley, with the prospect I met. He owns a printing shop, where he does prints of any size of client photog. The café at which we at shares a wall with his shop. We ate there, but didn’t. He, Rob, took a small patio table from his studio, two chairs, and set it right in front of his doors. We went in and ordered, walked fifteen feet or so back to the table, and our plates were delivered. First time I’ve ever seen that. See my office having the same nearness to a café, wine bar, or both. Where I’d always write. So then what the fuck do I need an office, or studio, or blogger shop for?