11:08PM. Haven’t logged yesterday’s words nor today’s yet, kept my stats but I did finish a standalone poem in the tasting Room, before the rain, thunder no one expected, light hidden lightning that you only know’s there and happening ‘cause you see it from the corner, your eye. Driving home, after all the flashes I appreciated from the parking lot, thick 12 traffic, I say more thin silvery-purple bursts (I call ‘sky blinks’), behind a CHP car, kept my distance, drove slow, Alice calling asking where I was and that little Kerouac was outside playing in his Batman boots, jumping around from mini-pond to another in the complex’s lot. Ran 6.2, not running even ten yards tomorrow, saving all energy for Sunday’s race– but on the run, rain and humidity, and a light celestial of all colors and of no particular color– pink gold orange yellow purply green, and it accented the street for me, till the sun was no more and I had to stop my running.. 6.2. I came home to an agitated Alice, as she cares much for her running husband, contesting I should have stopped at 5. And she’s right. AND, she again made the comment that I can run whenever I want I just need to wake earlier.. again, completely correct. Tomorrow I wake early, at mother-in-law time, around 4:30, to write, get to 2,000 words, grade, log today’s and yesterday’s progress, stats. Had another analogy.. for standalone pieces: okay.. so a double is two FULL pages, a triple three, and an HR FOUR.. so what about RBI’s? Not sure I want to get that technical, ruin the fun I’m having with these numbers.. just going to start with this and see where it takes me. No wine or beer tonight, just a 7UP and some sparkling lemon water. I feel like the storm that was over the estate, making mySelf known and unignorable. Going to take a break tomorrow morning only to get coffees for Alice and I, and a little vanilla scone for the little Artist whose speech and word mastery and versatility has evolved with unquantifiable strokes revolutions and chimes since I last cited it. He’s a character I can’t track.. I can only observe, love, learn. Like this morning, him ordering “Play, dada, go play!” His wisdom, showing me to lighten up, let the story carry you, you’ll get what you want, and that he loves me, his ever-riled papa. He’s my professor, my boss.. I answer to him, so when certain character so convinced they authority that can reach me, I just have to remember Nietzsche, his mode and how it applies to Life, notably “professional life”, and how They, management, see themselves. If they’re gods, then they’re dead, meaningless, and trivial at best. Not sure if I made the correct connection there, but I have something on my ursine nerve that I try to expel here, now, but I’m getting tired, I blame and credit the run. I’ll run on Sunday like I never have and write while doing so, like today I thought to myself that this run is the first standalone of its Literary shape, that this is something I have to focus on, in its sovereignty, forget about everything– the writing the reading the teaching, even my student; just RUN! Enjoy the freeness! I didn’t even have earphones in my ears, no music, just car sounds and wind and the rain drops, the last to escape from the thinning pinking clouds. — 11:27. Told Alice I’d be upstairs by 11:30, but I need time to edit. I’ll ask her see what she says– 4:30AM, imagine what I could get done and how that’d change my character. Had lunch with Nate today, Dav’s friend, and talked to him about character change, abstaining from wine, beer, and coffee and what that would do to me as a writer. Something I still need to try. The only leave I fear is coffee. In the morning the coffee’s like a tool, the same as the pen or laptop. NO, it’s as essential as paper, this screen, the keys– Alice gives me the much needed extension to extend this entry. So be it decreed: wake tomorrow, just start with anything, my advice to Self; any thought, image, go to Nat Geo’s website even and look at a picture, do the exercise that you have the students do occasionally; ten minutes, write, describe, or tell a story, a standalone, make it a home run! But I only give them ten minutes… Well, start with the ten and take it from there. Don’t plan too much. That’s not Literary, not Art and not Life. Part of me want to leap out the door, write in the street, right here on Yulupa, talk to the passing cars, make a novel out of them, and see if they write it for me. Just curious, sewn; archaism farming.