9 miles later, I

sit here with Jack, on floor while he plays and I think about this first week, how it’s already done and how euphoniously it progressed. I’ll type the sketch from the 1B section later, I’m hoping. A couple aches after the 9-miler around PC.. knee right, both feet and a little hip (both). And I know tomorrow’s at the winey, why why I think to myself but that’s not the attitude I want to have especially knowing Palooza’s open again– I’ll go to the loft, type away, for anything, anything.
I’m at a bit of a loss as there’s so much I want to address and talk about but the key lies in singular addresses, simplicity. I can’t cogently cover everything, that’s too much a wander. So… The run, the weather, that wind pushing against me on the second advance on E. Washington, like it was telling me to turn around, you won’t reach 10 miles (my initial goal). And the high school kids, just getting out as I reach their campus and territory, reminding me that my 20 year reunion is only 2 years away, and I fall, knowing again that Time WILL win. But as I approached E. Wash’ the second time, I thought about the marathon in May, the 17th, along the beach and in my birthtown, at least for a bit. Ugh, need a glass of wine or something to take this angst away– but no I don’t need that all I have to do is look at little Kerouac, over there with his cars and trucks and other vehicles, again in a perfect row or line, all in some order (the methodology to which only my son’s privy).
The concrete felt more punishing in Petaluma for some reason, especially as I was on that trail behind the Petaluma Campus. My knee already spoke to me at mile 3, but I refused to let myself slow or stop. I could still feel the 9.3 I did on Sunday with Alice, this morning, believe it or not, but I was committed to running today after class, angry that it’d been so long. Won’t run tomorrow after work, not sure what I’ll do.. not sure of anything right now– singularity, Mikey! Single things, people, places, moments! Each is its own standalone. Jackie leans against the carpeted toychest, watching Mickey Mouse– “Jackie, I wanna play with a car!” I say. “No no, one minute, Daddy!” he says. I laugh and once more envy his stage, age, careless corral. A friend sent me a quote this afternoon, late, about existence and rebellion. Can’t remember just how it worded, but she said that the words reminded her of me, and that told me something, and reminded me of what I wrote yesterday about Jackie and how I want him to see me. I relax now with the heater on and my son next to me just playing, and the semester is just starting, launching, soft carpet atop which I anxiety eclipse and moreso self-compose.
Jackie looks at the suitcase Alice and I bought him for xmas, tells me he’s leaving for ‘Magah’s’ house (Magah’s what he’s named my mother). Then he turns, again arranged and rearranges and lines up his cars and trucks and everything a different way. Now he stands, walks over to me.. “Wha’ doing, Daddy?” he imposes. “I’m working buddy.” “You working?” he adds. We hug and he walks away, kneels by his cars and crawls then to his bag, where he throws an old Sesame Street figure, The Count, over to the chalkboard Mom and Dad bought him. He’s busy, and I shouldn’t interrupt, much I want to. He makes sure everything’s in flawless alignment, doublechecks, looks at me, smiles, then returns to his project.