By Trees, 3rd isle..

What kind of obsessed writer I am:  In Safeway parking lot, just after getting 4SHOT mocha, as little Kerouac didn’t last night rest well.  And I’m not in the mood to yet be on Estate.  I’m just typing, thinking about the Road to Stanford ahead.  Thinking of writing out Tuesday’s lectures as vignette clusters.. each addressing certain points in class objectives, what we’re to “walk away with.” The next work in 1A, the memoir/nonfiction address.

Trying to get to teaching blog, but Safeway’s stoic, draconian wifi won’t allow the writer.  Another collision with technology.  On lunch break today, if I can get away from the ResRoom, I’ll be writing pen2paper, not on this button broom.

Clouds overhead, and no matter how many quick sips of this mocha I take, I can’t further wake.  How am I getting through this day?  And, as you might have deduced, I didn’t make it to 5am run, AGAIN.  I WAS up at 4:46am, but somehow allowed Self back into sleep.  I remember thinking, “I should just go.” But my clothes weren’t within reach, and I didn’t want to wake the little Artist.. so no run.  May try after work, if I’m not too tired.

Interesting, this parking lot, as place to write.  A woman just parked to my left, in a Benz of some model.  I can hear her having a conference call, speaker phone.  Surprised how loud it is.  Not too many cars in parking lot.  Why am I writing here?  ‘Cause I never have, I guess.  Not the best place to write, really.  Can’t too clearly see the Hwy 12 traffic, which I enjoy viewing.  Most what I see.. cars, parked, unoccupied, not currently used.  What do I do with that as an image, or “symbol.” I guess conveying everyone’s headed somewhere, like the Benz which is now leaving.  Guess her call ended.  On her way to meeting now, I bet.  Wonder how it went, what it’s about.  She was younger, ‘bout my age, maybe a year or 2 beyond.  She’s in sales, I bet.  Of medical devices, or software.  Or something in “the industry,” not dealing directly with the wine.

Parking lot.. not doing much for me.  So what am I “walking away with?” Don’t write in parking lots.  Unless of course it’s by a beach, or forrest, or park.  Near something sightly.  When on Road, I plan to look for useful parking lots.  With not as much cement, litter, cars, stores.  Something removed, like that one session I had in Pacific Grove, while Alice was out on errands.  Love writing to the ocean.  Does more that “help.” It carves the session’s progression.

8:55am.  Have to head to Estate in 5.  Reserve Room.  I can handle it.  I’ll make it work for me, my work [book].  Collect vignettes.  Why am I so obsessed with that form suddenly?  I blame Flash Fiction, that site I shared with my students.  If I put them together, these numbered captures I have in my little notebook I always carry to clock, what does it make, then?  A short story?  A short-short?  A novelette?  Think I’m confusing Self, OVERthinking.  Stopping.

Leaving this lot.

For something