1:20PM.  So nice to have a day to Self, off, free.  On my second 3-shot mocha.  And I’m feeling more awake.  The mimosas at Alice’s friend’s house definitely slowed me.  Thought I was going to need a nap or something.  Have to prepare for tomorrow’s classes.  I’ll do that later.  Yes, I still have the pull for a nap.  Little Kerouac, upstairs, very much asleep.  This morning’s run, a little over 3 miles.  Would like to go for another, maybe 4-5 more [miles].  But I have to remember that I have Fountaingrove’s hills again, tomorrow with the running group.

A bottle of wine, taken home from yesterday’s shift as a gift to us all for what sales we tallied, and our wine club domination…  Just behind this screen.  2010 Reserve Cabernet.  Another bottle of it, open on counter, by sink, nearly full, also taken yesterday, as it wouldn’t be poured again till Monday, since we’re today closed.  So we all took bottles home, the open’s.

Just thought.. is the bookstore open, any of them?  Well, I bought a New York Times from SBUX, on the coffee run just about an hour ago, for some “propulsion”.  While running, I thought to do this.. thinking of the scene in Capote where Truman looks through the newspaper, morning after a party, and has the inclination to go to Holcomb, KS to investigate the Clutter killings.  So, in a few moments, I’ll be opening this paper, hoping to find something to valuably lash at me.  A true story, one riling me in a way I never have been.  I once posed to students, years ago: “Can inspiration be sought, or is it always happenstance?”.  Not sure we came to any finality, but I’m seeking it today.

My mocha, dead.  Now, just a cup to my left.  Oh, and where do I write?  The nook, FYI…  Skimming the paper, but feeling lazy.  Conflict in Ukraine.. Cholera…  Interesting; a restitution claim, from Nazi-era Austria; a man possibly wrongly imprisoned.  But what can I do?  I can’t fly out there like Truman did to KS.  But I soon WILL be able to be about, with my freedom come term’s close.

Yes, I’m getting quite tired.  I’ll explore this paper more intently later in the day, or tonight.  But for now, I may follow Alice’s lead, to an afternoon siesta–  “NO!” the writing orders.  But I’m tired, I respond.  No answer.  Should just keep Self in the chair, work from within head as the bloody internet just died, or stalled, or did what it always seems to want to do at the most dastardly of times.  Why is that?  Because it’s the internet.

Older writings, I’m going in, quite deep and far, tonight.  Adding some pages to the novel, responding to them for the sake of my character.  I know that’s what I, and HE, want.  Those pages can’t just be let there to die, wherever they are– upstairs in that plastic tomb, or in some “doc” on this ugly monster laptop.  What would Mr. Hemingway do, right now?  He’d probably have some of the Cab, I’m guessing.  Or maybe hop to the Keurig, brew a cup.  But what do I want.. ME!  What is Mike needing at this moment?  An adventure.  Removal.  I can always write it.

Character:  Man quits his job to fly to eastern European nation in crisis, near civil war; he wants to document it through photography and writing; carry the truth of what’s happening THERE back to HERE.

Tomorrow, stay in the Library after ‘100’ class.  Research everything; the Ukraine conflict, National Geographic locations; Art, New York, Joyce…  Everything.  Stay there.  Don’t even ponder what would happen if you left.

Kerouac, Kerouac…  Have to keep writing.  Forget editing.. do that later.  Now I’m moved.. coffee, coffee, life on a Sunday.. Easter.. remember when I was young, all the plastic eggs with candy of some kind inside.  Now it’s Jack’s turn.. my little son, my little Artist, my little Kerouac.  All day today, so happy, smiling just because he can.. he doesn’t have to pour wine, recite the same words to people invading the overcrowded room, interact with the impatience; greedy, gluttony.  No, he’s just him, above all this.  So do I want to regress?  I guess a little.  Regress but ascend, you could say.  Freedom isn’t an immature aim, or want, need.  How could you say it is?  To be an Artist is only the most respectable aim, as I’ve always seen, I have to say, since Mr. Sullivan’s class, my last semester of high school.


just want to speak in song, now

do whatever the wind wants–

no rain, but that’s okay

on a concrete sleigh, avenue

yulupa, lavender up the road, preparing for a show I’m told, long line to get in

west politics, unwanted daughter–  potential

health just