Outside, hot but not too. Have to take my pre-meds in 30 minutes, which is more than enough time to get to 1,000 words, print a couple poems.. maybe write a couple new ones. I will be opening wine tonight. Deciding not to run, as one of my knees, the left surprisingly, smarts me.
This second mocha, more than electric and jumpy and nearly leopard-like with its encouraging slyness. I don’t know how my writing would be different if I didn’t drink coffee, or espresso, or these blended cupped folds.. the jazz, now, showing me images of Florida, I think Miami. Need to see the Road, gather my stories.
The wish list stopping: should have made that one of my 35 Laws. Why not just go ahead– okay I will. And the streets I’ll walk, people I’ll meet, more than just topics.. but blocks new built into my character. And I’ll be honest, walking on campus just over an hour ago, to see if my check was there, which it bloody wasn’t, has me thinking I want to break from teaching for a while as well, till I’m at Stanford, lecturing on writing on the Road; Fiction, Poetry, narrative, nonfiction, diarist forms, and all else more enlivening that bloody ‘100’ and Composition, even ‘5’. I need to be out THERE. Not blindly subscribe or accept the expected ‘HERE’.
Desk a mess, but I’m ignoring it. Papers everywhere, but I don’t care. Not now. On the way home from the bloody dentist, I’ll pick up some IPA, a different kind this time, from Whole Foods.. tonight, I write, relax, and step closer to what I truly want. What I’ve always wanted to do: travel by foot across Alaska, the thick woods inhabited by bear, moose, wolves, and whatever else, journal the whole thing.. every animal I see, every mountain I see when views aren’t too blocked by those tall trees (whatever kind they are). I want to be away from crowds, the city thickness– I mean, when I’m on the Road, I’ll be fine with it. But for now, when I’m there, on that northern stage to Canada’s northwest, I want perfect arrangement, removal, quiet; only the animals and environment itself are allowed to talk.
On the desk: a penny, pens, my wallet, the mocha cup (grande), my cell phone, and some old JC pay stubs. And I think where I am, 35, but still motivated to write, for my living, for my son’s living, Alice’s. Taking a break to print…
Love re-reading these poems. My Kerouac research is evident, to me anyway. I see more music in my writing, less caring and just bloody writing. Think I’ll have the Fall classes, the 1A’s, read him. See what they see, how they take his journey to their thoughts, connect it with their Human Experience.
I’ll be leaving in just over 15 minutes for dentist. Feel like such a child in how much I loathe going there. Printed the two poems, so that elevates my mood, a bit.