After my closing argument in getting little Kerouac to his crib, with his band of gazing furred cohorts.  While giving it, repeating, “okay buddy, it’s time for bed…”, I couldn’t wait to get to these keys.  Ever needed after a day like this, which I’m too tired to relive.  But I will say the estate hasn’t presented this luminescence in months, maybe even a year.  Can’t remember the last time I took this many pictures.  Still have to calculate and equate what to do with yesterday’s images.

Right from work, went to Sam’s party, just for an appearance, to show respect and appreciation for hosting such a significant and sincere, and meaningful gathering in his home.  I approached his street, then turned left into a random driveway near his base, backed out, turned left, then reversed to park, half on street and half on dirt/gravel/rock shoulder.  Walking to the surreally arranged domicile, I saw Sam with his hat, the straw and extensively circular one he uses when gardening.  He thanked us for arrival, invited us in, telling us there was a keg waiting, of one of my favorite Lagunitas beers.  I could only curse mySelf, my affairs, the ‘half’ tomorrow.  I even tried to rationalize or jumpingly justify just one beer.  I asked Jordan, as he’s a fit character, if one beer would affect me.   He said, with instructor’s kind caution, “Yeah, yeah it will…”, explaining further that my body would struggle to process the carbs from the IPA, and that I’d somehow be dragging, from just one beer.  So I remembered what Sam said about having Pellegrinos for me if I stuck to discipline’s arms.  He led me to the garage fridge, offered.  And of course, it was settled, I was drinking sparkling water.

With everyone on the deck, we sipped [they beer, me with bland bubble], ate the pistachios from the kaleidoscopically colored bowl, then chips that were brought out by one of Sam’s friends from out of town.  Then the salsa I saw that same friend making in the kitchen when I went to get the water– chopping green and red peppers, unions, jalapenos, tomatoes on a dampened chopping block, light wood.  Then came the guacamole.  While they all talked, I stared up at Hood Mt from that deck, watched someone’s children play on the lawn, chasing one of the dogs that was there– this small part chihuahua, part Nepalese something, and I think part something else too.  Sam gave some of the first-timers to his estate a tour of his garden blocks, and I still stared up at Hood, how the sun painted its displayed face.  That’s just the spot I want for writing, in my home, our home– where I want little Kerouac to run, play, pretend, sit and watch stars with me, just enjoy a spot on the Earth that he could stay in assurance was his, and always his.

I came home, to pasta, salad, bread– the beneficial carbohydrates Jordan advised.  Water, milk, which leads me to this sparkling berry water.  And I only think of tomorrow’s ‘half’.. what’s a “good” time, and then a not-so-“good” mark?  I shouldn’t care, but I do.  As I’m directly linking all themes of running with writing, as I’ll definitely and definitively be writing about it.  Another realization or new sight at the end of this semester’s novel.. and it suits so sensationally with this new Beat voice of mine.  I need my rhythm to be elevated, but planned, somehow.  There is a type of time I want, or would prefer.


9:22PM.  Should think about bed soon, but my fulcrums are too designated in this moment.. in special assignment.  Tomorrow, I’m just going to run, as tonight I just sat down to enjoy my writing, the words, freely reacting to the day: views from Boot Hill, Sam’s patio, the quiet drive home with no radio, no distractions, just the mythic inconsistency of the wind’s BPM.  I remember reciting something, something unique to the five minutes I did recite.  Don’t remember a word.  Not that it’s not worthy of record, just meant for the drive.. to keep me a Beat, one of verse, and this typhoon paragraph march.

I keep saying it to myself: “13.1 miles, 13.1 miles.” I’ll be honest, I didn’t train as I should have, but I don’t let my Self self-bury in that noting, or depreciative gong.  I’m going to run.  And thankfully, the weather nearly assures cool weather, a degree sequence that will not pause me– only thing that can do that is me.

Monday morning, 7AM show for English 5.  Then, to Omelette Express for breakfast.  And after I collect 100’s final submissions, I’ll go to the library’s 4th floor, to that usual spot, as I’m all but guaranteed it’ll be empty.  Or maybe not.. maybe students will be up there, cramming.  Who knows.  I’ll be there writing the new project–whatever that’s set to quasi-be–and maybe read a bit.. some of Kerouac’s work.. revisit Plath…  No running group for a while, so that’s nice.  Wednesday, no school nor work.  But I have to go to the estate to catch up on wine club letters.  I’ll write them outside, and maybe bring my Comp Book, have a glass of SB, enjoy the views as the guests do.  I deserve that.  And why not, I never do that.  Need to give my Self a break.


1 day, 9 hours, 23 minutes till the novel’s due.  Or, my rough draft, and I can’t add anymore.  This semester has taught me, frankly, to not listen so much.  To just act, react, and trust my reactive cosmos.  Wish I could look up at the sky now, with little Kerouac, see what we find.. what planets, constellations, fortunes are there for us.  Tomorrow will determine much, I feel– writing-wise, with running, me as a running character, and me as THIS ‘me’.  And my sparkling water’s nearly gone.  Bed, now I need bed.


“So Mikey, are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked, opening one of the pistachios, tossing the shell into the blue cup, plastic.

“No.  I’m ready.  I’m just going to run.  That’s all I can do,” I said.

“I like that,” he said.