Not last semester,

but the one before, I lectured on, or with amateur angularity, discussed Kerouac’s ‘Big Sur’. I’m re-reading it now, starting tonight. Abandoning the Wolff readings, and the… can’t remember what the other project was. I just feel quite Kerouoac-ian now, where I am in life, at my age. So tonight, I’m drinking wine. Trying to find something I haven’t before found, hear something I haven’t before. I know what lowers me, what saddens me, what gives me moods. So I plan on removing the cancer. Myself. MY own surgeon. This is what Jack never did. But I will. Tomorrow I’m going to do something extraordinary, something I never have. Never before. No, not something crazy, or stupid, just creative, methodical and molding, re-molding. Quiet in this house, but the dry upstairs goes, hoping it doesn’t wake my little beatnik, Kerouac… Ran 7 miles today but I still feel gelatinous, like an un-moldable gel mound that just sits there and bakes, further cakes. This isn’t depression, just intense examination of self. No nearby church, but I hear the song, and I feel as Duluoz did, or I do now. And that’s why I’ve always said Kerouac has more a universal message than most the canonized authors out there. Wonder how I’ll wake up tomorrow, and at what time, what mood I’ll be in. Shit, didn’t cue coffee. So what, I’ll so do tomorrow. We all have to be up early anyway, right? My woes take me away, I’m absent, dripping in reservation and second-guess-ed-ness. My old age, catching me tonight, making me more susceptible to these fucking allergies… I just want to read, make a covert return to my old scholastic self. This warrants another glass of the Lancaster, drink more and see what the wine says. Kerouac will stand back, just for a sec.

I need to write a letter to someone. Someone who writes seriously, not just someone who says they’re a writer and occasionally posts to a blog or posts something on social media, or tags me in something related to being a writer thinking that makes them a person of the pen. Who do I write? Dad, of course. He would say he’s not a writer, but I would venomously and vehemently disagree, as he tells the story. Flying around the world, observing battles and random street merchants, struggles and sicknesses… I need more stories, travels, time in a car and on a train like the blogger I “follow”. Sick of the regularity, the pattern— The dry signals its finish. Now the studio is uncomfortably quiet as it is in the morning, as it was THIS morning. I’m ready for this day to end, in this soundless respite. One move, sped, or no more’s to tell… Think about my story, where I’ve been, where I’m from, constant north-move. So continue— Santa Cruz, San Carlos, Santa Rosa, then …..
No knows. Last glass of the LE Cab— Eased. On floor, low light, breathing, I’m okay, I’m okay—