Entered a page in the new Comp Book. And I’m tired, sipping the 7UP I bought at the store, just hours ago. Overwhelmed already by all the work I have before me for the semester, but I’ll keep my life simplified, into one Composition Book. This laptop, used less and less. It has to be that way; simple, condensed, fluid, singular. Feeling not at all pained by the 5 mile run, but more from Jackie’s 1st day of preschool. How is it that my little Artist is here already? He grows quicker than I can handle. Need a cocktail, or something, a sip of this 7UP then one of the Stewart’s Root Beers I bought. Tomorrow at lunch, going to the Warm Springs park for writing, collection. And only bringing this Comp Book, layering myself in nothing I have to, but only want to. tomorrow’s theme, or major subtext note: exploration, true boldly honest exploration.
As I read further into Kerouac’s journals, I find he had the same struggles with the Craft that I do. Not sure if that has meaning or just something I’m looking for anyway seeing’s how much I love his work, but it’s something I’m here noting. Becoming renascent in a way I’ve never been, at least in my stepping, what I see, feel. Going to alter me tomorrow, in some way, and write it all in my little notebook– so I have that one, this new Comp Book, and “Front”, the notebook I took from campus, from the English Dept’s mailroom, me writing “FRONT” on what I believe to be the front side. Not sure, that’s why I wrote it, so I’d always know how to open. Somewhere in there’s the key to Road– well that and all the old blog entries. I hate the blog but then I love it. We’re richly and tastefully dysfunctional. We’re to be admired. Our mutual abuse is like thrown seduction, a loud tryst with unavoidable light and shape and beat.