Tag: Artist

Deciding to not go to lunch after drive to East Bay, Berkeley.  PB, J, and some other snack I brought the other day buy didn’t get to.  Quiet in break room.  Am I early to lunch?  I am, 12:59… there’s the door, someone coming in.  He goes to fill his hydro-flask.  Me, just here, eating what I brought, thinking about the drive and the houses, driving past UC Berkeley and seeing self lecture there, someday.

I restart my session, this sitting at lunch, the diaristic effort during an hour or a bit less where I’m to eat and zone out, not do anything productive.  What I’m doing now is anti-lunch.  But I’m eating— But I’m working, making self be with page, do something, be effort-prone in some level or elevation.  Class tonight but I’m not in much mood for anything after this but writing more and enjoying some wine, doing some money stuff, maybe, going through old pictures I haven’t sued yet.  Something for me.. what.. WHAT.  No answers now, more people walking into lunch room, me not knowing what I want to write about other than I’m writing and I would lecture on self-writing, examining self thought he words you put to page when you do write.  Self-study, self-examination and I guess to some extent assessment.  I’m thinking too much about this, this, where I am and what I’m doing.

Fruit delivery and they drop the boxes right here, the table at which I work and write and do the anti-lunch thing.  Guess the fruit’s for all of us here in the tech spot.  Think of re-starting my sitting again, around one word, then decide against it, then decide so vocally and cheerily for it.  I decide that I’m just an indecisive writer with a new job, a new office.  People debating around me and in front of fruit what they want for lunch.  Did I hear a taco truck’s coming?  Thank so.  But not spending money.  Not today.  Now the room’s alive, more than a few people.  I switch from the sandwich to some almonds I packed last week or the week before.  Thirsty now, again indecisive.  Time to self wasted thinking about everything and every article and specific thing near me.

Restart.  Another.  Poetry, writing one a day for the last few.  Soon going on a poem hunt through all my journals, wherever I can find one, I’ll collect it, make it parcel to a band of verses.  I’m bored with my writing, now.  Nothing about it interests me.  Could only imagine much I don’t want to, how a reader’d feel.  Wrote a poem while in the car, while co-worker navigated company car through Marin traffic.  Took a banana from one of the boxes.  Always makes me think of hotel lobbies, when I eat bananas.  Not sure why then I’m acutely sure why.  In the morning at some many hotels, there’s that breakfast spread, right there from which everyone can pick.  All the hotels I’ll stay in when touring with writing, speaking one writing, sharing my pieces then workshopping others’.  Then of course the obvious, at least to me, metaphor and symbolic steps of fruit, of labor and effort, thinking, living.  Need to decide what to speak on, tonight.  How to keep them engaged, but more than that how to keep myself into what I’m saying.  I’ll talk about reading, writing, college.  As the course title is College Reading and Writing.  I think.  We’ll start with one poem from Hughes, then our own works, our own written observations and reactions. Already bored, me.  I have to get creative, more free.

Onto another snack.  Fruit snacks that were bought for the kids, me sneaking one pack out of the house… again, bored.  Backpedal to poem—

Work, the clock, me in

Then out

The next phase or lean, 

Unsure.

Guess it captures my feeling now of restlessness or not knowing what to write, and when I do write I’m just not into it. Am I “into it” now?  I guess.  What do I do?  What’s the cure for this, this block. Is it a block?  Am I blocked?  No.  I tell myself, NO.  So… to what I was noting, this room. The writer at his own table, writing his new experiences in a tech company.  He doesn’t know much tech.  Well, maybe enough “to be dangerous” as people say, but he didn’t think so.  He’s from the wine industry, where the most technology dealing and toiling is found in punching buttons on a register, or operating a POS system than a monkey with ADD could.  Now, he narrates and markets a service, provided by an internet company.  He tries to write, this lunch break, and produces nothing to his herald.  “Fuck that.” He says, to the last typing.  His own victim, hunter, hound.

The last restart, approaching a thousand.  I need fiction, as what’s immediate and physically proximal doesn’t ignite a thing.  I put myself in class, tonight, what I’m teaching.  Nothing.  Tonight, we’re talking.  Nothing formal.  I care too. much, in this session.  I’m not overthinking.  I’m thinking in excess to the point that my thinking is so cyclical that no real cognition presents.  Rub my eye, one of those annoyed exhales.  Mom’s right.  Tell stories.  Tell stories… the tasting room’s where my inner eyes go first.  Then the classroom.  Then writing.  More than indecisive.  Only reason I’m following through with this shitty session is so I can return to it, learn, not repeat.  But knowing me…

I should have gone out to lunch.  To that Mexican place up the street.  Family-owned with over ten years ownership and residency on Sebastopol Road.  Whenever I treat self to lunch there, stories circle and swarm.  Ideas of owning a store, a wine bar, some wine retail and something-something.  Yes, should have gone out.  Tomorrow, no fail, I’m driving up the road.  Is that taco truck gonna show?  I should go outside, see… wait, I think I know where it is.  Then I feel full from the packed snacks.  Goddamnit.

9/12/18