Teaching..

Research.

What kind of life do I want.

Dinner done with Nurse, sipping one more glass of this Bella Zin, Dry Creek.  And there I go.  Told myself I would focus on academics and here I am freewriting.  But maybe that’s the point.  Maybe I’m more a writer than an academic.  Not sure what I ought do.

Nurse applying for jobs out here, posturing and positioning a move, and here I am freewriting.  Maybe I’m not as serious as her, not as grown-up.

FUCK.

Okay… calm.  What is your Field.. Theory.  Philosophy.

So… the Now.

Where I am and what I’m doing.—  OR, not me, but the character.

YOU.

How did you get here.

Go beyond degrees and the GRE, and that’s where I shut down.

Took the GRE once and bombed.  And, me, this writer, only with an M.A.

45—  FUCK, what do I do?

Nurse over there typing.  So proud of her.  Both of us—here working, writing.  How did I find this Queen, this GODDESS???

MY writing and publications, much I hate that word, my work, that’ll be my degree and GRE.

Started this note as an actual “Note” on this laptop, now realizing I just need to be who I am most.

A writer.

Blogger.

Do I want to take the GRE at 45 or older?  Fuck no.

Apply for anything else?  Not really.

So….

The writer keeps moving.

This Bella Zin, more like a jazz club in Paris, right here in our kitchen, the nook where I write but now share with this gorgeous Nurse.

Moving to the other doc, sorry if it’s confusing…. Seeing myself differently, especially after today at work and meeting with that stylist, owning her own business and more than successful.

Certain need-be-made moves.  20:22.  Like Hemingway in the café, but I’m here already with love.  No need to search for a thing.  Everything I need is here.  No need for another degree or get some number on an “exam”.

No, I’m not quitting, I’m not scared… I’m using what the writer already has.  Like one of my most leaned-on poets.

So liberated, so self venerated.  No more unneeded nerve curves, that only only perturb and put the writer’s words in dimensional dirt.

The Nurse, scratching her head… thinking about something.  What… always want to know what she’s measuring.  I should have been a lawyer, or cop, or something like her. Not an English major, later instructor, lecturer.  Just something I think about, especially lately.

Most I’ve in a while type.  What am I learning… no fear, stay with what’s already set.  Wait… what was I going to do.  Send an email, somewhere—  WHERE.

Too much on the writer’s mind.  No it’s not the wine, but the past 3+ years.  Devils coming at this writer from wherever and whatever way.  Picking apart my stare and face, posts, past, whatever they can.

Comedy, to me.  I beg to differ with multitudinous fault lines rumbling.  But it’s late.

No time to get into that.