I always seem to stop at that light.  What is it, Columbus and Broadway?  Either way, I think of my son, Jack… how his mother sold me on that name.  I was opposed tot he name Jack at first, foolishly, then she said, “What about Jack Kerouac, Jack London…?” I agreed, no regrets.  My little Kerouac, not with me now in this Nook Office, but with me universally and with punctuated state.

Talk with Dad, Mom, about words, vocals, intentions, discussion and reality.  And more notably, TRUTH.. not just the notion or concept of, but the implications and immediate deliverable.  Something that s truthful, someone being so, and then one not able to convey even a microfiber of candor, believability.

How can I not fid that funny…

Any way, the city.  SF, that bookstore, Mr. Kerouac, me trying to be more like him at my old fucking age, knowing the kids are reading and wanting to tell them a good story.

Jack, so young in that one picture.  Now, such a big boy – with priorities and objections, analysis and commentary, free.  Me, only in a sea of envy…. OR more admirations.  Yes.

Mornings in this Nook, moths ago.  Wow…