Was so pinched for time last night that I emailed the students from the red light at Sebastopol and Stony Point.  Told students to wait, that I was running late.  I park next to Emeritus Hall, where many of the full-timer fullies do and ran up the stairs like I tried to run in that Marin Headlands marathon.  Entered the room to all find them excited to see me, ready and eager for my words.  I nearly felt like tit wasn’t happening.  They’re an incredible group, there was just something about the way they are in their seats, journals out, waiting.  I had nothing with me but my phone and keys.  Did everything, all words and offerings, ideas from me. All of it.  Hemingway was me and I was Papa.  There talking about Paris, the characters around Hem in the 20s during his “Lost” years, and his narrative force and shape.  Today promises to be like yesterday, where everything is written for me.  In my order, ordering me to not stop and follow my own beat, my own music.  Life over Linearity, living madly and the only linearity and lines before self are the ones pronounced by self.

Set timer last night for 24 hours.  Something has to happen in 24.  I’ll make the occurrence find me.  With writing, with business, with what I do as this essayist.  4 shots in mocha telling me to think of what I said last night as I have so many times, “Where are you and what are you doing?” For writing, a prompt, realization.  Quiet in home, all are gone, me with my jazz and last night in all sensory sets.  Walking in, ready to speak feast, the movement, Paris and the people around him, me.  Every day.  The facts and frames of personifying places.  From the office, to this house, to Paris, to SF’s Castro district where yesterday I wrote while biting the turkey club and fries the gentleman endorsed.  With a Coke, of course.

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