from a journal

First time writing since the hotel, since the night before the run.  Still have whatever bug has commanded my functioning since… can’t remember.  Picking up student papers today, then that’s it.  Not sure when the next time I’ll be conventionally teaching.  9 days till 40.  So much I want to write, from so many singular notes…. Sleeping from 8-something till a bit after 1 today, both from exhaustion from the run and the bug, the run itself in that hurricane or midwest-like storm.  Then I write about the drive back from Santa Cruz and about Santa Cruz itself, thinking about short stories the entire time.  Stories my mother tells me to write, about wine and being in a tasting room, playing baseball when younger, running now.  Music, jazz, going to Oregon, living on the Peninsula, anything.


Still feeling a bit drained and not of full blare, but I keep moving.  Keep pressing self.  Thought this morning on writing in third person.  Mom tells me she prefers her reading experience to be 1st-pers’ narr’.  And I agree, with wild heart’s velocity.  BUT, as an exercise and demand of me to me for me, I’m thinking of 3rd.  As we do at Sonic when we record observations and communicate something we saw, or something we said, all is done in 3rd person.  I’ve never seen that before, at a place of business.  Certainly the wine industry wouldn’t think to the point of discovering anything in that light, trying something new and breaking template.

Brought coffee over here, closer to me.  Cold, or getting colder.  Have to get some Rosé for wife, three bottles of the Balletto which she had the other night, when I was on the Road for running.  She took the babies out for a date dinner, a fancy dinner as Jack described it.  To KIN Windsor, her’s and my favorite spot locally, it could be argued.  She told me she had two spaced out, distanced, glasses.  She’d never done that before, had more than one.  So, I said to her I know the owner and quite enjoy their portfolio as well so I’ll get a couple bottles.  Wont be tasting when there, I’m sure.  But it’ll get me out of the house, moving, away from the image of me resting, trying to recover.  Hate being like this.

Deep nearly angry sip of the coffee. I get a text but don’t look to see who it is. I don’t care.  Have to keep moving.  Read it quick then back to page.  Feel sneeze approaching… /Done. Not going to disrupt or distance me from me wanting to do something with the day.  When in the hotel, in Capitola, I thought about where I was and why, for running.  How I need to have more of the Road, more writings in random rooms. More Newness, more education, more notes, more exploration and less pattern, less boundaries, ceilings and walls.  Okay, I shake self, time to drive.  Time to move more, get out of this house, tell the sick that you’re sick of it.