from 64 no edits

[comp book] Parked with my embittered ink & Composition sheets and can only think of Jack Patrick, my son, and how he sees me, how I want him to see me. To the near side of a writer, I want him to see me in an independent wave, one tidal’d and titled with conviction, I want him to see me as a Creative, one who loves jazz and other musics; I want him to understand me and that my every aim, ideological entertainment and purpose, self-purpose and printing is for him. I want him to know how I deplore authority and tyranny, how I want him to respect the balanced authorities that be at the same time, and I want him to see that’s a contradiction, and I want him to understand why and who his father is and the father’s purpose in that conflict, contrast. 37 degrees on the outer of this Suburu’s shell and I think how pleased I am that Jackie’s in his classroom, learning; warm, safe, “cozy” as he often expresses when on the couch with his blanket, teddybear. My hand already groans, cramps from holding this pen, writing with bizarre RPM about Jackie. Hood Mountain and near hills and vineyards stare at me, the birds too from their boxes, asking “Well? Now what?” Exactly. Today’s one of reshaping, difference, the image, my image and not in the narcissist way. The one I’ve been tackling this whole project, for the past however many days (don’t have the laptop so I can now call where I am in count). Writing with a pen, an electric start (see the pun?). Yesterday reminding me of where I’m to be, and how, certainly not here– A police SUV just drove by. Incident? Theft? Vandalism? “Great!” I think. That means material, a story, a piece. Something for ME… a quick sketch, a standalone outside this project. Now he drives up the hill to the house. What happened? Should I follow him? No, I’ll wait till the slanderers speak, gossip as they do, always do. Anyway, yesterday, my new students, only 2 classes, no Mendo, and all Kerouac for the first few weeks. And that’s another image I want Jackie to associate with me, an educator, reader, speaker– Now a SoCo Sheriff interceptor passes me, think he was at the house, too. There, a story waiting for me, but what? WHAT? And it keeps distracting me, I know. It’s a magnetically expansive placement of what-ifs and wonderings, and I can only wait. You know what, this place & this industry write their own pasquinades. So serious to Them, but funny to me, and I will soon give them notice, telling Them I quit for writing, printing, my own work, nothing to do with bloody wine. But I need to promote the blog more, I know. Glad that fucking button machine isn’t with me–

9:17, I’ll bring my bag in with me, and xfer everything. I’ll write today, tonight! Just as Sal did. And I will have my own paradise. It, It, I want IT. Not this– the goddamn clock and the order, the foced and fake cordiality. Not for me. Nothing in that’s of a musical consistency… I start thinking of how much old writing I need to go through, break up, make into standalones, and I stress, feel anxiety curtail my scope and concentration, and Personhood, and simply punish me for any independence, sovereignty, freethinking activity.
This place is gelastically foolheaded. I laugh.