TWENTY-ONE

7/4/14. 10:21AM, out of shower, done with 10K. Pretty sure I beat last year’s time, but I’m not stoically sure. Beautiful scene arrangement welcoming me in, with low fog, slow moving and welcoming. But that soon burned away, climbing those hills around Lawndale, and whatever that other street’s name was. So many passing me, early in the race, and I became frustrated, near bloody angry, but I refused to let it in my thinking– I was out to enjoy a run in the morning, with strangers, no music, feed off their sounds, momentums, and passings. And while upstairs, dressing, I thought of the standalone pieces I have in cue, and I think much of this mental direction was seeing my journalist/photojournalist friend Dav at the finish line, snapping pictures of me, and later Alice and Katie crossing that line of closure and fruition– each run for me stands as its own standalone piece. And that’s what today was, is, a contribution to a series, or sage, or maybe not, maybe just its own story. I can still feel the run, tightness in several portions of my standing, or when I’m sitting. But the day is off, that’s for sure, and I’ll only write, write, finish the short story, finally, and type the short standalone freewrite from class the other night, and all my notes from yesterday. That’ll be three pieces for projection, to whatever magazines’ll take them. And if not, I have my own collection. Music, now, I need music, the jazz to which JK would write. It’s that kind of day, where I can’t stop, and the rhythm was started by those hills, me having to battle them again.. views of vineyards, waves of sun shooting at me like invisible sniper columns, the trail portion towards the end, and the older man that always managed to stay ahead of me. But I was there. Running. For me. Freely. Now, the mocha closes, and my eyes catapult to crazied compulsion.. the Beat’s ways.. observing everything and making a story from it.. but there’s too much around me in this cluttered kitchen: my wine bottles of there, slight right and forward by plastic trash bin (raising lid with foot press), little Kerouac’s toy truck to left on table with me (currently low battery, which frustrates the little Artist, forcing him to shout “Boken, Dada, BOKEN!”), my wallet, little paged notebook, papers I still have to grade in plastic bin, the notebook I took from Dept mailroom.. Alice’s running shoes, on chair to my left. the blend wouldn’t work, so I have to extricate one or two, maybe more of the constituents.. wine, keep. Notebooks, keep. Jackie’s truck, keep. Alice’s shoes keep. 4-varietal blend. And what I have is more motion, with Jackie growing faster that I’m comfortable with and me wishing I could write it all down, and Alice with her religious, near orthodoxly fundamentalist running habit and pattern and practice.. I have to catch them, both of them.. all of IT, whatever ‘it’ is. 10:34. Brunch with Ms. Alice, at East/West Café. Really hoping this could serve as a new writing sight for me. Haven’t been to the Redwood Café in some time, most because of distance and the obvious timing, but I need Newness, the travel that Kerouac sought, making him join the navy. With the day’s rest, I’ll time myself with the writing.. first assignment, have a standalone fiction piece in 45 minutes.. you make your students do it, so you must as well– practicing what you promote, or what you passively gloat in your instructional position. But my routine, or my subject– no, my ‘BEAT’– is Life, the characters, Me, little Kerouac, the wine and how it’s made– which by the way, my sister told me today that in a couple weeks she’ll bottle our 2011 MKCS Cab! I’m beyond excited, more than excited, actually. Finally, my first wine, ever, will be bottled! I will go forward with production this year, on some project, two bbls max.. write about it, name it after my son, and keep after the process, with each calendar square, with my wife’s level of devotion to her running. A fruitful morrow it’s been, and I’m only starting, the story’s still leaping from the soupçons of my momentum.