6:49AM, 8/7/14, and I’m already feeling not so much emotional but aware that this is the last session for my strongest ‘100’ session to date, and in the summer no less.  But I have no choice but to move on and I let myself just for a minute think of the dream I had last night about my writer friend and I writing a play together, a play, why a play.  I have no fondness of that expression but I have always thought it’d be a challenge or at that very least an experience.  But no, no plays for this novelist.  Anyway, haven’t heard from her in a while, and why would Mike Massamen be on her mind when she has all this adventuring ahead of her, the mobility, the lessons from it, the flights.

Spoke to Scott the other day and he submitted five pieces of flash fiction to a little-know magazine out of Fairfax, Marin County.  I asked him why flash and he said he just wanted to try it– they were sketches he wrote while at the dentist office, and no not on napkins, which reminds me I need to buy a packet of Whole Foods napkins, case I ever have the urge, I’ll pack them in my teaching bag, just so they’re there.  But anyway, one of his pieces, I think was about where he grew up, Oregon, Bend, and the other were about being a student, running, and building a workbench for his uncle, I think.  Did I leave one out?  I’m just moved by his follow-through.  Why can’t I do that more regularly?  ‘Cause I want to write novels?  That seems self-discriminatory–  Why can’t I piece vignettes or shorts or short-shorts together like he anyone else.  Actually, I think that’s what his first book was, originally, before the pussy pig publisher pushed their talons into its innocent placement.  Why do they do that?  And why don’t more Self-publish?  Why don’t I already?  Have all that money saved and am too afraid to touch it.  But I’m too old for fear, that’s for the high-schoolers, that’s for the Greeks in the college systems, on the campuses, too afraid to take their own positions, hiding in the safety of a three-lettered hut.

Coffee in kitchen, little Kerouac on floor, playing with his vehicles.  I have to change who I am for him.  And the beauty: no compromise, it’s only empowerment; more running, less of what me slows, and there I go, to the best seller’s list, or at least to the Road.  A lady I work with, ‘ML’, has a son that often goes on tour with his punk band.  Last year touring all over Europe and this year doing quite the same.  Punk…  Why can’t a fiction writer/poet?  Not a good question, I’ve asked it too many times before.  Way too many.  And just like that, I again realize time’s insistence.  The semester’s over, and I have to keep walking.

This is just a game, I keep telling myself, not to seriously take or undertake.  The game will continue, onward, diagonally with blurring beauty.