In the morning I wake feeling healthily detached.  I brought myself there, I’m thinking, to a place where nothing can hurt me, or bother me, and I can only advance, grow write and conquer.  Need to push to the second cup.  Woke at six, just before or after I can’t remember, thought of writing but didn’t.  The Summer semester comes to its end, and I scramble to ready everything for my four classes.  Have to get on Road and rush to Mendo campus next Monday morning.  Like Kerouac’s character in ‘Road’, Mike Massamen needs to find not only ‘himself’ but more purpose, why he wants what he wants and he plans on getting himself ‘there’, or ‘bringing himself there’.

So I’m going into “work” today”.  And it doesn’t bother me.  Why should it.  It’s only a job, not a career, and my character needs development and complexities and equations to solve for character growth, or maturation, or intensification.  The seashells on top of the TV armoire, staring back at me, begging me to come back to SB, hurry, hurry– and I can only do so much.  I won’t allow any mood into me this morning, or when on the estate.  Already know the picture I’m going to take, then I’m relinquishing, if even need to use such a term, my social media privileges, or duties, or powers, or whatever they think I have or want to do.

Only an hour session tonight I’m thinking.  I’m sure the students are tired of their final papers, I’m almost positive, and I can’t blame them.  So… have to plan a surprise exercise or talk with them.  Make it exciting, or new, they need Newness just as I do, that’s what I have to keep in mind.. narrative, narrative….  Reading Kerouac’s Big Sur has me reconsidering everything about writing and work and teaching and overall living, what my character wants and needs.  So, to drawing board, and I’m mapping everything.