Posts Tagged With: Philosophy

Home, 9:01AM. (Day 72 excerpts.. no edits)

…Mom said, “Laughter’s a proven life-extender!” Yes, very true, Mother.. now I create and focus on my images, the one of me just walking around a vineyard (in this particular conscious envisage, St. Francis’ Wild Oak Vineyard), between Syrah and Chard, and I think that’s Merlot.. not sure, but I just walk, look up at Hood Mt. and stare back at the ground. My wife, Jackie and I took pictures over there, far left, over by the visitor center, where the tasting room is. All positive and poetic about this morning and this imaginary walk, ‘nother sip… Mr. Hutcherson plays, and I play.. music and poetry, my teaching, talking about Kerouac to the students and seeing what they have to say.. this 1B session, about wellness, health (mental and physical), about Personhood and “spirituality”. Duluoz, in a battle for Personhood, for (dare I say) recovery! He wants to, possibly, recover from everything and recover and/or recapture what he’s lost, leaving the madness behind– I’ll save for the paragraph below, the one I’ll post to the teaching blog. Today I live as how I saw myself living later in life when I was 17 or so, in high school, in Mr. Sullivan’s Creative Writing class; I saw myself, at this age, as a writer/professor, and that’s it. And today, that’s it, ‘that’s the ticket’ as they say, I’m him, the New Mike! The one I saw then and now and the one I revel in. Divorcing the negative, attaching Self to the positive; my son, my wife, my family, the words, the mélange of it all, all the positive, all the lifts and gives to growth, that makes me smile, this poetry, the Art and expression and LIFE! That old expression: ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all.’ Radiantly correct! Why would you! Why would you dignify the negative and what would prompt to say or write negativity with the Art, with words? No! Only the affable and transcendent!

…COFFEECOFFEECOFFEE, my singular obsession in this sitting.. why do people drink alcohol when you can have this? Especially if you write? You’d rather have a drink, a whisky or wine or bourbon or beer? Are you a fool? Look at this, this madness that folds and delivers me from any sorrow or depression or holding, or clockish confines! I will hit 5 pages today you can bet, and when I wake from my nap I will run, only five miles, that’s it, maybe just do my ‘big daddy’ run that Alice often does, just five, a comfortable and leisurely 5! After 10 now and I should take a break from the page, maybe use the restroom, stretch, breathe, meditate without writing, but can I do that? Something so godly about Literature, and Philosophy, and the act of reading, what’s on a page, the Author having the fire to confess what he/she does. I could only have heros like Plath, Kerouac, right? Like Mr. Hemingway, like Dickinson, Joyce… I’m at peace in my Personhood now, so thankful the story brought me here, home, around my son’s toys and on this couch, hearing this jazz paired with the fridgehum in the kitchen. I’m smiling right now, fearless in my joy and positivity, my thanks for everything, my loves; Mom, Dad, Katie, Jack, Alice, Grandma and when she told me only days before she left, “It’s YOUR life…You have YOUR choice.” And, now and always, I choose to be happy, and to be in love, with everything, with tomorrow and today and what brought me here, all in my story. Namaste…..

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…she didn’t say a word.. I use this for writing

for momentum for my rebirth as it were. I’m alive this morning, more than I’ve ever been! All for my priority plate: POETRY, music, the prose that’s so beautifully confessional and that my wife an mother warn I shouldn’t put out there. I have to. Maybe not on the blog, okay, occasionally, yes, but I must be honest and aggressive with that Hemingway fire and truth otherwise I’m dead and my little boy has a coward as a father. While having a beer with Mary afterwork yesterday, she made me laugh, made me see humor, made me forget.. I wish I was as strong as her, not this sensitive Artist, but I’ll learn, I will… Plato say music is a universal law, that it is moral, that it’s about life, then today, I’m musical, my own genre, defying all formalism (like my grad school poetry professor), and everything saying I have to write this way, think like this, sing like this.. be careful, someone might read.. isn’t that the point? but okay, I become more covert, more cunning, more methodical, more predatory.. a stronger poet, prose carver… oh look at me go, high on caffeine like Kerouac on benzadrine.. I’m alive, and if you don’t approve of this style and intensity then it’s obvious you wish me dead. BEAT4EVER!!!

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Didn’t make it to five

yesterday but came close. I’m committed to making today one of the greatest in my collective story.. how though, I have an idea but don’t want to hex it by writing all details here, now.. has to do with teaching, not abandoning it, going forward with it, and finally getting– NO. Stop. Talking to Michael the other day about his doctorate has me– What did I say! No more! But I’m thinking, and the 1A lecture will be written, actually written out, by noon. So I’ll take Kerouac in with me, ‘Road’, and note everything, questions and answers and writing prompts and character insights.. and the issue of Morality, Ethics, civility and communication.. remembering the medical resident I met the other day and how he told me his undergrad was in something not at all med-related. Can’t remember what it was, but I was piqued. Hastened to my drive and image for the day.. Professor Madigan.. sounds fluffy but I very much take to that over one pouring, or “advancing” however you do andorwould in this industry. First step.. my morals, morality, others, Emerson.. Russell. Today, all ideas pyrophoric.

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5:53AM: Not letting myself go back

into any kind of sleep after putting J in our bed. Can hear his little voice still, saying something to his mother, but poor Alice in her fatigue from the previous day doing a dozen or so errands with the little Artist says nothing back. The light, left, was on but I turn it off when I hear his voice, not sure if any of that emanation reaches eyes upstairs. So off. And I type as I sometimes do down here in the dark. Probably another busy day today, one tourists with their vouchers and locals just wanting something to do on their day off. My friend Michelle coming in yesterday, and I learning she has ties to old friends of mine from the box, and possibly opportunities new, but do I investigate? Do or would I take? Or do I adhere to my vision of this being my last ever job, in the wine industry or any other and “stick it out”, “hang in there” as Dad’s always advocated, hard decision and I’ll see what’s what but I don’t want any additional stress or processes at this point in my life, and I certainly don’t want to be one of the wine industry people on their own tour, or circuit, no I have to adhere, adhere, follow through, use the wine industry and where I am on that beautiful property for material, stories, yesterday me filling my little notebook with it timid remaining pages, logging everything people said, what I saw, what I thought I’d see for the day, and even just writing “day crazy it’s the wine” when it really started to get packed, around 2-3.
The espresso I had yesterday with my loft session was a bit much, making shake with discomfort, and although in the moment (upstairs in my wood chair and my equalled table) all was music, it later disrupted me in a way I haven’t before felt. And now I’m starting to think that caffeine when I write should be moderated, as so I can be more truthful, not have too much gall and fire when writing. And as it passes 6AM I contradict myself with a wish for coffee, it’s a part of me I realize but last sitting (Loft) there was delirium with it, again hard to explain but I know I didn’t take much pleasure with its waves. Now quiet upstairs and I monitor how fast and forceful I push these keys. Something different and drastic has to be done, or written rather, as I don’t have any horizon’d changes or invitation. I know, I tell myself, “Write your own.” Okay, but how… “The story will tell you.” Well what’s taking so long. Frustration, in bouts with patience, a new civil war of Self and can only observe, too divided for concertedness, but that’s my inner Nietzsche noting what I already know. Think of my son and what he should have in a father, what I had as a father growing up and how I see Dad now– Goddamn the immobility of this Now.. so change it, get in trouble, write to set the world on fire– D, the then-manager at AV Winery said to me, about one of his sons, “I love him to death but he’ll never set the world on fire.” I would all but die if I knew my parents thought that of me, and I’m quite sure they don’t. But then, do I think that of myself, or perhaps a better way of asking: “Do I EXPECT myself to set the world on fire? Do I see myself doing so? And why not just do it now?” Yes, good question, why wait for any opportunity, or topic to walk through the tasting room doors or that muddleheaded whip-waving manager to say the right words to put in my little notebook? Why not just light a couple matches now? I will I will… And watch the flames rise and gobble everything while I fly above what cinders result.
Hate that I didn’t write when home last night but that’s what the Story demanded, that I live for a bit, just be a lazy rather than type erratically as I now do. Oh, and the car, the Passat, so dirty but just enough character to motivate me to buy a new car, once the real writing money lands– all those visuals on the Restoration Hardware, or desks and couches and other specific stage attributes painting and image in my head of my office. Lisa and I kept looking through the website but I wasn’t there, I was in my office, imagining myself writing at one of those deep darkly-speaking surfaces, for me, to write, to escape into a small I-don’t-know-how-many square foot room, my office, to log every fascination and entertainment that even timidly slithers into and past my cognition. Like now, with the refrigerator humming I can type a little faster and more ferociously but I know it won’t last long, and the coffee.. I’ll need it… and how those who do read the blog DO notice my caffeinated connection. What if it were alcohol, like Kerouac or Joyce, or Carver? What if I DID have a “problem” with drinking? I bet my prose would be more volcanic, I’ll tell you, maybe even more marketable, but I can’t risk that, and I’m a runner so too much alch would put me under an ill spell, but I do wonder.. what if I was more like them, the masters?
Hate being behind in this project, I feel slow and fat and like a thick pot of gel that’s been spilled but doesn’t move. But I won’t allow that Nietzsche nod fumble around in my trot here, not this morning, no. This meditation is about … Not sure if it’s about anything specific but it entails me and having a better me for the little Artist, and Ms. Alice. Just had a thought, and I lost it–

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Singularity. Single topics.

A standalone idea; proud isolated and firm. Yes.. from now on. So now, this chair: wood, cheap, straight, stiff, not waivering. And certainly not comforting. I try to concentrate on the last of the ’10 I just poured, and the whole dilemma with theory and teaching and literature, but this chair won’t let me. It wants to be noticed, hurting the back, hips, and even knees (how does it do that?) Maybe it’s suggesting I work on my posture or look more attentive or just seem more professional, more sophisticated since I teach at the college level, but what is that? This is my house. And if I wanted to, I could toss this fucking thing in the trash if I wanted– but then I’d have its three siblings to deal with, and more than likely they’d hurt more, angry with me that I tossed the other seat into the parking lot bin, that large one with whoknowswhat in it. And I’m not convinced this is real wood, erecting this seat, this seating station for me, so maybe it inflict pain as means of being recognized. Yeah that could be. Or, it’s just a seat and I’m in a mood, maybe it’s trying to point that out, that I need to relax and not be so obsessive as a writer and turn it off once in a while. Yeah maybe… Another sip of the Cab and I still ache, buttocks to brain to bravado, I’m uneven, which is interesting as a seat is supposed to situate you, especially a writer, right? And, again, this is my house, my kitchen nook, and my evening– push it out of your head, I tell myself, this seat and what it’s made of.. it’s a bloody seat, wood maybe, cheap and barely edified. The Cabernet tells me that it’s not worth another word. But then I think, “Who are you to be talking?” And I also note, nearly say aloud (which would wake little Kerouac and make my wife think I’m loon’d), “What do you want me to talk about, you? You’re just WINE.” I sip the rest of it to shut it up. And refocus on the chair– I will say this, it doesn’t allow me to get distracted, by anything; by the TV my wife watches, by the day I have tomorrow at the winery doing all the usual nonsense, that I’ll be 36 in 14 days, 4 months… It forces me to focus, be linear which I’ve always thought was a detract, but no, I’m seeing, more clear, and that’s because I’m here in this straightened hard nominally copse cathedra. Oaky, not so much, just reminding me of a tree, one murdered for consumerism. In fact, all’s simplified and honed to my liking in this chair, and I’m not with any impair. I’ve waited 36 years nearly for this. Just wish I had more Cab, so it could see how nugatory it is correlated to the moment itself, where I write and what had me writing. And that’s this chair. Singularly.

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DAY 63: tu 1/13/15

On campus, never been here this early before. Was up just before 5, now with coffee from BUX and notes for 1A done I can collect a bit. Going to print the 1B syll in a minute, but how early I woke this morning, driving to copy place in dark, odd and early and quiet ambiguous hour. Asked the guy at copy place if he was working the graveyard, he nodded with a tired smile, eyes essentially closed. And here I am, only minutes before starting the semester that’s to make me, to define me, to get me out of the bloody winery and free me from blandcracker normalcy.
Oh how this coffee works, and me reading Kerouac at this hour, letting that energy and momentum sink into my writing character and defy the hour, I don’t care what the clock says. Should print this 1B pageset,t hen go to my room. 1607 is it? Can’t remember.. will look at my syllabus like one of the eager and embarrassed students– oh shit have to print roll or roster.. damnitalwayssomething.

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from day 61

At home working on my syllabi, Alice taking Jack to his friend Addison’s house to give me some time to work, bless her… Easy drive home, no traffic at all, none. Finishing this coffee, then to a beer which I’ve been craving for the last two days. Still very much feel the 9.3 miles, very much. Wanted to take a nap like Alice but couldn’t even if I wanted to as little Kerouac was still very much in his demanding standing, “Play, daddy, play!” So I did, and now I think of how to make this semester one for me, more than for the students. Of course I want to “teach” and show the matriculants new ways of looking at Literature but how do I make it more for me, how do I change my life and my story and the intensity and meaning of my existence? I’ll see, I’ll take some brief notes, and explore my owning notings. I’ll have to print the syllabi copies, at least those for 1A, the 7AM(!!) section at some point tomorrow after work. And I will, straight from work going to the copy place on 4th then back home to pack bag, again lightly (will travel light this entire term, a difference), then to early bed, ready, and I will fill that tumbler with the most extreme of coffees, more than likely the Pike, but have it to top, no “room” as they say.
Still feeling run, so very much. Why has it hit me with this intensity, this time? Maybe as I didn’t sleep that well last night. Next time, on the next overnight, wherever it is, I’ll bring my own pillows, sure that’ll help. One other detail from this morning I forgot to cite was the fog, in the park mainly, and how the pockets kept trapping me at the beginning of the race, even forcing me to run onto the side of the road with one of my little skipjumps that Alice always laughs at. But not at all hindering, as I always was able to establish my own pocket, and at the end of the race a couple trying to dash past me, and I let them for a minute, fooling them into seeing me as a dying engine, but then I shot past them with an furiously electric gallop they weren’t prepared for. I want to run around Petaluma tomorrow, I mean Tuesday, after class, around the campus and maybe up whatever street that is that runs into Petaluma Hill Rd, maybe just an hour run, or 45 min. But right now I can’t imagine running, honestly. Ugh, hate that I’m so tired, and that I’m not typing as fast as usual. Tomorrow in the goddamn tasting room, I’ll write both lectures, or take the notes, or those in addition to anything I write tonight. Have to go pickup dinner.. but not hungry after the late lunch we had, sandwiches from Oliver’s– I feel a mess right now, honestly, and I don’t like it, at all. Should switch to poetry later, write something that can stand on its own and be performed, read, to music, jazz then.. yes now I come awake with my deflated slate, think about writing a poem in that bar, in Union Hotel, at the bar itself while people sit around me and drink and talk and/or stare at the screen, highlights from today’s football games, or watch one that still might be on. Frustrate now and for what reason. I’ve had a wonderful day with Ms. Alice and now home with my son, why the sludge in my sight and this ephemeral edge, at least I hope it’s short-lived. I’m not in the shape for some internal skirmish.. go for a drive, I tell myself, go to the restaurant, order dinner, wait and have a beer and write a couple words, whatever lands, and stick, and provokes.
I’ll write one when there, on the first object or character that calls, but I have to be in the territory of bar, and after I order an IPA.

And I did write a poem at the bar but my little pages are upstairs. I’ll type it tomorrow morning, before prose, or I’ll try. Here in nook with nightcap, my streets in that neighborhood, Japantown, calling me, wanting me back, or the neighborhood through which Alice and I walked last night, to our restaurant; new topics sprout– sidewalk discoloration and wear; the uphill facet and consistency of SF, how I love it; and those buildings, the building that make me dizzy if I look to their topfloors, closer I get to Market and Union Sq. Sipping my Racer 5 I dream of the Road, other hotels I’ll frequent, write in, shower in, how the towels will feel, what tables I’ll place my laptop on, or write in my Comp Book, what the lobby will smell like, what the color layers will be and what the elevator will look like and what views I’ll have from my floor. Last night I was, we were, lucky, with that view of the heart of Japantown and Sutter St. and the people walking through that narrow plaza. Last night and this morning, I experienced Newness, difference, Life like I never have; that windmill, the waterfall, the expansive lawns, trees, the smells of those leaves at the end of the run (can’t be sure what trees they were coming from as I was looking at the ground at that point). I’ve found something in SF, my city, where Dad was born, and with this trip! I grew up just south of there, and visited ridiculously often after I turned 21, relying on North Beach for social circles and meetups and parties. Now, I’m an agin writer, never more desperate for material and pages and characters. Today’s characters: all on phones, or most of them, after the run at the afterparty if that’s what you’d call it, on phones, taking “selfies” (can’t believe that’s a word now)… Sick. I don’t want that in my story, in my vision. In fact, I may outlaw cell phones in my office, when there, on the Sonoma Square, and yes that’s what I’ve settled upon. Right off Spain…

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Giving myself 27 or so minutes

up here in the loft, and I need to work quick. No one her in pub, it’s still closed for the cleaning or re-do or re-arrangement. Jeff just showed me the kitchen and all the changes and it looks amazing, has me thinking about a wine bar again, one of my own, just getting further into the wine dimension and on my own tempo, so I can do what I want with wine, not what’s expected or what you’d think one’s supposed to do. I want to do just the opposite. Hear them in the kitchen, moving stuff around, Jeff offered me a beer and I … Acknowledging and appreciating the quiet of this space, the loft, my space, brought him 3 bottles for “rent”, one Cab, Zin, and one of the stainless SB’s we do. And now I’m stuck, I can’t think of anything, anything singular to write or ideologically explore.. just focus on my stage and surroundings, my space up here. Table left, someone’s key set and a deck [cards], then “Don’t Break the Ice”, one of those games you play when you have company over. Wrote a poem in the TR, and just how I said I would with fragments and singular words. But I don’t have time to type it now, but I could read it if I had to, from the small pages of the book, my little noting pages. More standalones from me, needed, to fill this list, but I have all those writings in that box, in this very laptop.. see? I need to be free, away from the winery and out of the business in my own office so I have the time to do so. My wife, being the supportive queen she is would let me stay the night in my office, and I’d be aloft on my coffee high going through old writings and typing and arranging I don’t know how many books. I could start in a space like this, on my lunch breaks, then those lunch breaks would turn into 8+ hour days when I leave. And I don’t need an assistant, what for? I hear that some “famous” writers have assistants to type their work the next day. What the fuck? I thought, imaging the assistant struggling with certain words and markings and scribbles. A writer shouldn’t let another anything–assistant, family member, lover or friend–touch their pieces, ever. “There’s a salad, there’s a salad, there’s a salad,” I just heard Jeff say. Now he speaks about flatbreads and strategy, placement in his place, his restaurant. I can’t help my infatuation and involvement in this space. Why? Not just ‘cause of the loft, right here where I’m permitted to write when it’s closed, but so much else that I don’t know how to now catalogue. Think I might need another as my typing excellerates, swirls in bizarre cubist and beaten boldness.
Semester staring soon, soon, and I’m ready, more than I thought I was, and this sitting confirms my mentality. So… First thing, the question, “Why are you here?” This will transition into a challenge of why the system or school says they have to be there. What do they want, the students?– Jeff just told me he’s leaving and that Billy, one of the cooks will let me out. See? That’s what I mean about Jeff and this place.. there’s trust, there’s love, it’s family, what the wine world should be and should practice but isn’t, doesn’t. Makes me sick. 14 minutes left, about, and I breathe, relax, envision the run Sunday, Alice finding someone to stay over and watch the little Artist. I’ll run tonight and not aim for any time, just run. Last session, Monday, I wanted 6.2, and I reached it, but not tonight, just a solid 5 miles and that’s it. I want to enjoy my music, my stepping, and my time to Self. Hear Billy chopping something, I think that’s what he’s doing, not sure. Don’t want to go back, just want to stay here and brainstorm over the new semester– funny, it’s like Fall 14’s a bad dream, like it never happened. It’s over and I can’t accept that, odd, but I refocus on the loft, the table left, and my empty glass. Several empty wine glass on the bar, right, what for? Event? They may have had a poker night or something recently, as I see one of those chip holder on the table, right, and some cards on one of the poker tables. 10 minutes now, should go, get back early, don’t want to hit a thousand words, and I should put something on blog anyway now, just when I have time– dangerous how relaxed I am, how calm, how centered, how part of this setting I’ve become. What would they do if I didn’t go back? Ha ha.. part of the bold mood I felt this morning from the overflow lot. Think I hear the wind outside, is that what that is? Odd day, but I came here, I did, I wasn’t distract by thoughts of having lunch with Nate or doing anything else like picking up some bottles at St. Francis as I was thinking of earlier, just after the useless morning meeting. I made it here, to my spot, my space, my office.. times will soon alter this, this semester, just watch, and so many will be surprised that I actually did it, that I changed and re-wrote my reality, my Personhood.

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from day 58, no edits

Coffee.  Downstairs.  Waiting to be brewed.  Was just going to use ellipses or commas or hyphens, dashes, semicolons or something between these thoughts and clauses, sentences or whatever but why can’t I use periods?  What’s wrong with the short punctuated thought?  Need to work on keeping my records cleaners, neater, and that’s why I wrote the Amber letter above and not in some separate “file” or laptop “doc”.  Goddamn I hate this thing, this device.  After this, I’m going to write.  Thought about writing in the library after verifying my textbook order but I left to get A’s coffee, and rush home, then to the hospital for an errand, AGAIN.  Hate going there, even driving past it gives me a bit of the willies.  Wishing for my own office, then I wouldn’t have the problem of clutter.  And I didn’t buy new notebooks for Philosophy and this new term, as that would just be more clutter.  Turns out I had two unused, or basically unused notebooks in this desk, the lower right drawer, so I’m quite set for the term, and the rest of the day.  Where should I go?  Should get a haircut but why?  Why do I HAVE to do that?  I should, if anything to get out of the house and maybe write offsite.. new sights, the Newness I need for my writing and for my overall narrative and depiction of me, ME.  Haven’t had shower yet.  Perhaps that first then some coffee then a drive where I’ll take my Comp Book, the one for personal writings and this lifelong narrative, and note after the cut, maybe get another coffee on 12 @ Mission, just sit and write, note who passes, but for what?  Maybe I should have a glass of SB somewhere, like Cellars (a place my wife is fond of).  Or study.. should get a binder for all these articles I printed last semester.  I’ll use the coins I’ve accumulated in the teaching bag to satisfy such overhead.  Sensible, not overthought, done.

And with the coffee next to me I imagine how this first semester will go, possibly my last if the writings evolve as I want them to and these changes to Self come to fruition in the way I envision.  No more writing by device unless it’s a specified session for one project like these very key punches.  Simple.  Not overthought…  And if I stick to that I see only fortune.  I look at my coffee, those swirling and swerving clouds rise from the black flat that I can barely see from this vantage, remember early mornings I’d go fishing with Uncle Stevie, him having coffee and me something, I think either hot chocolate or just chocolate milk.  We wouldn’t always catch something but I’d always appreciate how cold it was.  Cold and quiet.  And the fish I think were quite agitate that we were on their water, talking, making al that noise with Stevie’s motor.  The boat he had was not too large, seating possibly 6-8, max; not too thick a metal material but very durable.  He had that thing forever, or as long as I can recall us on such outings.

I write too much to submit, so I have to Self-pub.  Know I’ve said that before or something like it but it’s the affirmation and Truth of the moment, right here at this desk.  And while this coffee brewed, I threw my old black bag, the one I had while at the box and reached into quick one day at the Roasting Co while writing, looking for a pen and severely cut my left forefinger on a razor I kept in their, for early shave touchups in their, the box’s bathroom (only doing so somedays).  I didn’t need it anymore, as I have the present bag which I’m aspiring to barely use this semester, and it was just more clutter in this already tightfit room.  Oh now this is much better, my desk barely clutters, freeranging, me as a writer with my uncluttered thoughts and dreams of being on water, in a boat, not too far from land but just enough of a distance to where I feel truly at sea…  My character, Mike Massamen, being that he’s a single thirty-something (not going to pin him to number, just a sort-of age-range), one day decides to rent a boat, after taking several lessons and getting licensed or certified, goes for a very cautious sail on the bay, just around Marin, with a guide of course (he’s not confident yet to go totally alone).  But I’ll have to experience this or research it.. maybe both.  Research first.  Research always first.

Haven’t ran since Monday, and now our run/race in SF Sunday may be in jeopardy, with Alice’s Mom falling sick.  I should get out and do a couple miles just to be safe.  Forget the haircut, it’s all about writing and running, at my age.  And I can’t remember the last time I had longish hair.  When?  When I lived in San Ramon?  Shit, but I just had coffee.  Will wait for it to wear off.  Or no, I won’t run.  Why run when I can stay here and write, truly stay in the chair as I advise my students, sometimes all but bullying them to write.  I don’t bully them, I just heavily and heartily encourage–  I’m going mad in this house, with this coffee, so why not drink more?  Just one more cup, I tell myself, or how about fill the tumbler that Alice bought me?  It’d be free!  Then I could come back and watch one of the writing movies or read a little or even add to the day’s word count, add something to the items list (which I now realize I have to chip away at everyday, otherwise when I die so many work will go forlorn).  Thinking now of writing another letter but having it be its own doc, or file, add it to the items list.  But not before I get some coffee, yes, the Beat must persist in his caffeinated sips.

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We are evaluated

by what we do, occupationally. This is part of this day, the value set. If you wait tables, you get one look. If you’re a lawyer, you get another. Those looks have in them embedded values, appreciative curves.. Is this right? Just? Civil?

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