.. after leaving the little Artist with preschool, constant annoyance– traffic coffee lines, people changing their orders, on their phones and not watching where they’re walking much less the poor overworkered and underpaid barista behind the register. Then, the looks, all lifeless and subscribed, I wasn’t frustrated with them but myself, ME, why am I there I asked myself, this has to stop– But I’m here writing, thought about Kenwood lot, and the spot on Warm Springs, our park, but no, I want to write here, on their turf, my words and expressive harpoons have landed and hit, REGISTERED. So, the day ahead, probably cooler which will benefit my my run, no bees or overheating or exhaustion that soils my pace. Students, I think, here while staring at my tree and into the fog– plan for them.. vocals and expression and passages from Road– madness, I think, how beautiful, how useful. LIFE, there’s nothing in the still, and I should connect the discouragement from summarizing to lifelessness, “You’re not talking,” I’l say, “the author is. In this class.. the power’s with the reader!” Think I may be nearing some word count but I don’t know and I shouldn’t care.. it’s like a winery that makes 20-something wines and only 3 or 5 or maybe even not that many are truly rattling to a sipper’s senses. ODD IMAGE– lady running by me, earphones in, running outfit, her pace a bit slow but steady and melodic, she runs…

… I could go in and start with the setup, help, but I’d rather not. This, this lot and spot and time is mine. So thank you. Use single sheets, I’m telling myself, for these thoughts, in the little red book that is. One of my students, ‘K’ I’ll call her, just moving to CA from KS just over a three months ago. She told me, and the class or a couple students around her how it’s still very much an adjustment. That’s what I see for my family, Alice and little Kerouac. The ocean, walks on a levy, salty light gustings from a vacationer’s atmosphere. Peace, and renewal in the chapters ahead– the simplicity of life is always stripped, especially by scenes like this morning’s coffee stop, Starbucks on 12 & Mission. Used to write there whenever I could, but no more. I remember writing there after being ‘let go’ from the box, while Ms. Alice still was carrying our little one– Truck stops in front of me, blocking everything. son of a bitch! This is just what I mean. This is my moment with my tree and now this machinery’s in front of me, confrontationally. I don’t want to hear those break sounds the squeaks and your grieving engine. Bugger off!
9:21, guess I’ll go in. I’ll come back out here for lunch. Goal today and tonight, 2,000 words, again. Now that’s my number I think. 1,000’s too easy. And I don’t have to stop at 2k, that’s just a minimum, like with my running the hard-deck if you would is 5 miles.

Morning, 8/23. 2014, this year wants to end, I can feel. And the coffee tells me to resist. At the estate, some more stories.. I have to make myself write down guests’ words, no matter how busy I am, or how overwhelmed someone else is and tries to inoculate me with their grief. I’ll finish Monday’s outline today, or tonight at some point, just have to commit to it. This semester, I fall behind and I’m done for.. how about a note every hour for Monday’s lecture. Coffee, need to concentrate… This morning’s one of those mornings where I’m having difficultly waking and the run from day before still dances around me in a gloat, but it’s fine, it helps me feel alive– and any subscription at this point in my life is death or the equivalent, or something worse that I can’t find in a thesaurus. I watch my little boy play again, then break his attention for one of his favorite cartoons, wonder how his attention looks in some waving sculpture in his thoughts. Can’t look over the Santa Barbara notes, but I want to see visuals of the city. Message from Scott just arrived. He’s in town and wants to visit later this day. Where was he, does he have something new published to tell me about making me feel even more behind in the timing accordion.