8:36. To be in bed by 9:45, and I recall the whole day with my little Artist, one of the happiest, most enriching and meaningful in years (and I thought the last two days were incredible)… More planning for tomorrow, with an aching foot, right, from the hour treadmill run which yielded 6.2 miles, in its terms and calculation. Again, I know I ran more but I’m not fretting. Wednesday, right after I take the little Beat to school, I’ll go out for a long run, probably around 10 miles. Need to force myself to engage with more distances like that, as the Santa Cruz marathon, Surfer’s Path, nears. All this openness before me now, all this invitation and freedom, to do what I really want to.. Gorgeous American Grim.. I know the word “Gorgeous” will be mocked and torn, but I have sturdy defense of the idea. I’ll talk about it lightly tomorrow, hoping to get to campus by 5:50, like I did Thursday. Then after class come home to write and prep for 1B, and write a little for this project, yes, but take Massamen notes, start writing the novel before I end this book. At a loss at this nook table, with my Girl Scout Cookie nightcap (a no wine night for the marathoning writer..), the peanutbutter ones, and I can’t believe it.. I just.. can’t believe it. I’m out. I can teach, lecture, write, maybe go for that doctorate.. study, read, only be drown in this literature, the reading and thoughts from students and passages I admire from my authors.. oh tomorrow will be explosive, even more than Thursday’s sessions, the day after. I’m free and alive and puttogether in a way I haven’t been in YEARS. Seriously, since 2010, late that year, when I only poured to supplement my then-part-time post at the Dry Creek winery (which turned out to be disastrous as well). But I have to stop with this nostalgic lick, need build, and build fast, Time doesn’t care about me or my aims or this new freedom and elation, Equilibrium (to quote Dad). Build, build, be mad, mad like the characters Sal admires, be desirous, of everything, and everything is reachable! And if you encounter doubters and skeptics, sweep them away like lint or dust. And not under a rug! Don’t let them be so comfortable, snug! Out into the air, let it do what it wants with them!
After 1B, may go to the Redwood Café to write, find more passages in both Kerouac books as I close the section on him, for semester. I remember writing there in Fall ’13, after the English 5 and before that evening 1A.. loved the wood and the coffee smells and all the characters I’d see come, go; eat, drink, talk, confess (like the two AA gents in the corner next to me one day, talking about the beneficial attitudes and approaches of recovery); the were committed to bring themselves from the mire-molded they found themselves in, and I admired that, and I remember thinking “I hope they write, this is a musical story if I’ve ever heard one, overheard one…” And after, I’ll come home to rest a bit, maybe have an early afternoon beer, and just think. Since last Wednesday, I’ve made myself NOT write, just observe and live, then later write. Like today with little Jack; I didn’t want to write while with him, I wanted to observe all his sentences and drawings on that chalkboard and all his arrangements of his toy battalion. “Dada,” he said at one point, just back from our bagel run, “you sit down and play, okay?” I smiled and obeyed. Writing, right then, would have ruined the moment, and convoluted its cast of two.