Too many kids in Starbucks so had no choice but to take the expensive, or more pricey route at Toast Eatery.  Place with a diner feel and a cute menu cover with a smiling toast piece offering a thumbs up.  Know I’ll regret this, or cite self for lack of discipline after.  Or I won’t.  I won’t. I need a new writing seat.  And hear I am.  Ordered the Denver om’ and a coke.  Asked the chap what he thought of the Denver.  He said it’s good, he loves it, one of his favorites.  Of course it is, I thought.  Well, mine too, no matter where I go.  Day elevating even further, knowing I can’t control how many people come to the door for the Reps.  But, I can offer insight, instruction and encouragement.  Realizing at this table against the wall I don’t control much.  None of us do.  And instead of fighting, love the fact that control is figment.  Imaginary.  Enjoy and write from the absence of containment.  And what we call, perceive as, control.

Pleased that I go to lunch alone.  Writing.  Feel my essential and immediate poet here, more than if I were to even find a seat or small wobbly shifty table at that juvenile den Starbucks next door.  Writing in SF as I want to.  Sip coke set it down. Hear something in the pan.  Either the peppers or onions to my Denver.  No idea.  Early tomorrow morning up for even in San Mateo.  Where I’m from.  Years and year ago, last, at Serra High School.  Can’t help but fixated on time and what it’s doing, how it moves with everything involuntarily moving with it.   It again, I let go, stop tries to tame and or tackle it.

Prince’s 1999 on, and I thing this is 20 years ago he sings of, and even earlier when he wrote and recorded.  This diner, designed when.

Plate here.  Small break.  Keeping screen on…

Simplistic appearance but a shapely cosmos of flavor riles and tells, turns and altitudes.  I’m refusing to let anything of me fade, none of my aims by addled or maladopted.

Taking momentary away from plate.  Thinking about driving back to Santa Rosa.  When do I leave.  When do I wake tomorrow morning.  Pack all running effects, tonight.  Tomorrow morning should be for me, more than for anything else.  Clothes out, write a little as soon as I. Up.  About waking early, before anyone else.  What earlier hours do to vision and understanding of the Now, of the self.


In office.  Busy.  Keeping self.  Aims for day written in head.  Run.  Send kind notes to as many characters as possible.  Last day of reg term.  Already progressed further than I thought I would have by this point in day. Relieved to be in office, frankly.  Latte, caffeine working.  Poetic and moving, speaking to self through poems and songs from drive till now, starting when I took the Stony Pt. exit from 12.

Using what I note on Leads and Reps, and into my own story, self-instructions and education.

This place uses the idea of “action items”, quite a bit.  Part of me thinks it’s a bit trite and stale as an idea, but I just thought, “Why not try it out?”  My item for day, FINISHED PIECES.  To SELL.  Think about it, I say to myself, what if you could sell every piece you write? Hmmmmmmm……

9:59, don’t want to run.  I’ll try to make myself.  TRY.

I’ll be a poet laughing at day’s close, just as I was yesterday with Jack.

Constant creative.  DIY, but more than that.  Write and create and speak from everything.  Creative opportunities.  Everything, every break and in-office effort is a creative opp’…

12:43.  In running reality, clothes.  Going to head out.  Not concerned with rain, at all.  More than enough energy.  A bit hungry, but ignoring.  Will eat when back.

Launching in 10 minutes.  Go slow, start slow I mean, I tell myself.


2:28.  7.5 miles.  And I feel nothing.  Not overheated, of course it’s raining and cool.  But still… only pain is in right heel/achilles.  Not much appetite.  Sipping sparkling cherry water.  Feel amazing, but still feel nothing.  Could I run the rest, the 5.51 or whatever.  Easily.  Need to stretch out right leg, so whatever I feel there doesn’t build and compile, lead to anything else.


3:52.  Now feeling a bit of tired from run.  Sipping coffee, working through it.  Wondering what to do for rest of day… of course plan for tomorrow, which I already have but can always do more.  So I will.  Now.  Measure my productivity and write it and self into more productivity and I’m starting to hate that words.. So what then.  Projects.  Books.  Everything around me to be written., composed and positioned, angled as I need not so much as I like.

My stratagem is the day itself.  This office and this desk, the 7.5 I ran rather than eating or scrolling though some feed on my phone, or even writing.  Ephemeral, ephedra… echo echo.  I’m dancing in my own head, on this last day of the semester.  Should plan for that too.  Have them write, something, anything, as soon as they come in, or as 7pm lands.

4:18.  Coffee nearly done.  Know what I’m doing for class. Feel a bit of soreness or strain in calves, and starting to feel a bit hungry.  What to do…. Snack here, get something at JC?  Look at this, look at me… overthinking to hellish bellring degree.

from a journal

…close on another term at the JC, I resist the close, notion of closure.  And so should anyone in a similar stroke.  In the first paragraph of the book, the reader is convinced to consider the idea of Newness, growth, new sights and meditation, collection. Seeing more of myself as the boy, Santiago, even as I approach 40, with the hear being my ideas. My collection of Nows and what happens why my travel continues.  Thinking, thought, pages, notes.  With my grading done, I look over the incepting paragraphs, with the boy using a book as a pillow, literally resting his head and thoughts on another’s thought, thoughts.  Travel in ideas and a resistance of the stationary, staying in one spot.  With my studies, mind you.  Kerouac said one day he’d find the “right” words and that those assembled words would be simple.  I’m not concerned with simplicity or complication, but movement.  I’m focusing on my read and the lessons of each paragraph, traveling with Santiago and seeing what we see, together.  In this read, or re-re-read of Coelho, I’m re-writing my life, my aims, the aims I had in senior year of high school, announcing them several times in fact, of being a writer and professor.  Where on the travel, in the journey, about my syllabic and paragraphed trek did I stray?

The idea of comfort in a book, ideas, rest and even sleep but sleep that isn’t at all a state of dormancy.  The boy on the floor, with the bigger book is me, I see.  Is all of us, or should be.  Knowledge, thought, reading, writing, should always be in the main character’s scene.  And if not, then a puissant pursuit of something, even if you don’t know what. Maybe it’s just the pursuit of pursuit, having something to seek.  On the first page, we have a kindship and care for the boy, and his heard.  Why not? Why not want to see where he’s going…