Back from dinner with Mom and Dad, Alice & Kerouac, and like that.. the house is ours. Autumn Walk. Now, I’m at the Yulupa base, on couch, typing to a Racer 5 cap, and thinking about all on my page, or plate, or stage, or slate. Trying to start a copyediting/writing service, and some ad copy.. posted to some social media plain and I’ll see what happens.. dinner at Rosso’s, had a ’12 Turley Zin and again was surprised by what greeted me. And I thought more, about the day and where I am in Life and what we’re doing as a family with this new house and how I’m about to turn 36. 30-fucking-6.
Kosta Browne reaction posted tomorrow morning, before heading to Arista.. and more thinking. I’m overthinking, thinking about the meetings with students this morning and again where I am in Life and re-reading Big Sur to see if there’s anything I can learn, looking through my Comp Book, what lectures I wrote and reactions to student presentations. Next week, the last of reg’ instruction. How is that possible? I shouldn’t be writing right now, but just enjoying the day, the notice of what’s ahead.. and no matter what’s before the writer, he’ll keep writing. He’ll take notes at the very least, jot feelings and reactions and moments– all in the book and all noted, notes, he’d learning and he’s forever a student of Life and the students and what he does in the classroom. Yes, maybe overthinking, but like Michael Browne I’ll stay on the river..
Quiet, this night, and I only think of the Autumn Walk base, where I’ll build this writing life, my “business” if you would, and sell ideas, visions, visuals..
And my thoughts break but I keep typing. One thing I notice about myself when I have wine or IPA of this seismic significance is that my attention roams and I disconnect from aim, but not now– no, I have what I want in scope and fold and determined with dire discourse to it acquire.