Pinballing

Slow, my pace, and character, inner-narration.  Can’t understand why and I’m not giving it too much more consideration or any contemplative effort.  Class tonight, and in no interest to go.  But I will, I’ll force myself, see what happens.  See what ideas and thoughts form.

I’m not lachrymose, or of low ebb, I’m just not fully in character.  Why.  What is this.  Guy plays pinball just to the left and front of me, and the noises disrupt my dimension even more.  Fuck, that thing is loud.  I ignore it as best I can and look further into what’s happening in my circuitry, today.  Got a small latte from the spot up the road which I shouldn’t have done.

Still slow, but with more framing and purpose in these types.  Didn’t think I’d get to writing today, honestly, with this mood.  Or whatever it is.  Not sure it’s a mood, either.

My next plan of attacking it is to attack self and self for having any kind of mood.  What the fuck do I have to be even minutely glum about?  Money?  Not hearing back from a wine country lead?  SO. WHAT.  I move on, dismissing and disregarding all of it.  Only present here, where I am and what I’m doing at Sonic.  Project now—JPR’s.  Never done them before and I know that’s part of my stress stack, but again I just vow to write reactions when I get back and see where they go.  Much of knowing your Now is to just walk into it and see what’s read to you.  I’m writing the story, but it’s also writing me.

I get a text message but ignore it.  I want to understand this, this Now, me in the Now, and what to do for remainder of day here in office.  Tonight in class, this entry very well may be part of the plan, this pinballing avoiding paragraph stream.  Am I fighting those shrieking ding and dong sounds, and the voice coming from the flat vertical portion of the machine.  Forcing self to write, forcing self to ignore it.

He leaves, but some corny battle-victory song keeps playing.  No one in this multipurpose room but a writer.  The machine silences, and all I hear are noises from outside—someone throwing something in one of the bins, some vehicle driving off the lot.  My mood shifts, into curious curvature.  Haven’t written in here in a while.  If I was at low ebb, it rose, even before the pinballer left.

Just going to see what happens this evening, with class, with the first discussion on the newest book.  Memoir, narrative, everything we’ve talked about so far this semester.  I forget about the wine country prospect, the JPR’s, this large room.  I fixate on me, my day, the quiet machine now.

Almost forget about my latte.

Tempted to try the machine.

No.  Stay here.  Look outside.  Listen.  I’m writing today, more honestly.

My own sort of game, I guess.

 

4/1/19

Mike still feels the exhaustion, but not like earlier.

He has class tonight, and suddenly he’s more eager to teach than on days where he does get 6-7 hours of sleep night prior.  He notes what’s on his mind, exactly and not exactly what’s present in his thinking.

The office starts to calm.  The voices lower and fade in intensity, but his intensity can only compound and compound further in words and complexities, or what he thinks are complexities.  The essay idea forward and forward further in his chair, right where he is.  There’s no lack, of anything, at all.  Like he’s before thought and like his mother has so many times told him with his writing, everything he needs to write about is right in front of him.  “You have enough to right about right where you are.” Mom said.  She was referencing his life as a father, but Mike takes such sight and applies and threads it into other scenes, the one currently right now as he types at his desk.  He’s found an antibody, a compositional vaccine.

2/25/19

2:55.  The exhaustion is there, from being up late with Emma and then again early this morning, but after a meeting with SB and this newest cup, black coffee, I’m revived and alive, seeing new lines and pages just in the next hour, before class tonight.

CPR/First-aid training earlier.  4 hours worth.  Didn’t know if I’d make it through that but I did, mostly from coffee and certain addresses in the man’s teaching spooking me a bit.  Enough of those thoughts.  In fact I haven’t thought about it, at all really, since leaving that room in the other building.

3:08… Me, an essayist.  Finishing my essay on visions.  Holding to that idea rather than just having a list of “goals”.  You have a vision to which you not just subscribe but imbibe, thoroughly believe and intimately conceive.  You want no pause or reprieve from your vision, what you see for yourself, see yourself doing.  I’m finishing this bloody essay, tonight.  1,001 words, my aim.  Objective.  I’m stubborn in my character aim of essayist.  Singular pieces.  The drive to Brentwood, here in this office and working at this company.  Okay… something’s definitely taken me, thoughts in my cognitive channels and inner-storms.

Vision of self, where the self is headed.  Your visions, more than mere wants or simplistic wishes.  They’re not wishes at all, nor dreams.  The visions are assurances.

One reason why Sonic works as a business and employer, as a business entity, is much from their support of employee visions.  What they want, and how they want to attain their aims.  Something I’m not used to, and I’m not using this place as a platform or bridge to get anywhere.  Destination’s not the objective.  What’s being sought here is what’s already here and its proximity to me.  I’m building from where I am, me the essayist, me the teacher, me the most ME I’m able to free.

New Affair

On campus.  Took nap before coming here, after getting some takeout brunch for self from Piner.  Was in a bit of a mood knot so I said “NOT” to self and went to get an omelette.  Regret a bit the nap, but I feel enlivened.   More than that, I feel snappy, with an unusual bit of comedic pep.  Am I prepped for class?  Not really.  And who cares.  How I’m dealing with these mood knots, now, going forward, my truest of true business plans if you would, just laughing at them.  Laughing at myself.  What do I have to be in a mood over.  Really.  Nothing…. Here over 90 minutes before class and plan on using every ounce of it for writing.  For words.  Oh, ‘nother nice thing, little treat for self was gift to book store.  Bought copy of Castle and the David Sedaris Diaries that came out fairly recently think.

Devoting life to essay, essay writing, essay philosophy and practice, the habit of that practice and how I, we, maintain such as essay writers.  Who cares, my approach to essay.  Which sounds dismissive and perfunctory, but not so.  Anything but the case.  In writing essays as I urge us all to, we write them not convinced with convention and structure, construction and orthodox diction and thought prism.  We write freely.  We write unconcerned.  While waiting for my Denver at Piner Café, I thought of all the essays I’ve written as a student, and all the essays I’ve had students write.  Have I done them a disservice by instilling and advocating the structure and formalistic tap-dance the course outline says?  I think a bit, yes, if you must know.  But now, who care.  Who cares.  Or, who else cares… Or, who cares who else besides ourselves cares is what I SHOULD say.  

I’m laughing at myself, writing this essay.  If it’s an essay.  Maybe just a free write that I could submit as an essay.  Submit to who, my own blog?  Is that where?  I’m in the conference room, not the shared office with adjuncts where they have us cooped like chickens or ducks or pigs about to be slaughtered.  Could write an essay on that, the shared office for adjuncts, or just an essay on adjunct-ing, or on students of the adjunct.  Essays should be rooted in singularity and extend from it.  After my nap, I’m a growling lion, or bear, hungry for more pages and more climates to feed the career of essays I’m about to paginate.  I feel exacerbated by the time I’m in, the time in my life where there’s a decision to be made yes but just where I am and not necessarily solely to do with age.  What exactly then I don’t know, though note there’s more vision.  Not doing this, following through with this recent singular call to build a career on and from, and explore essay would prove mordant.  So I follow through, and just follow.

Being on campus does something to me.  Always has.  Though I deplore adjunct-ing, and being an adjunct, I love the proximity to students and the act of learning, self-study, and of course the English Department where essay is the interminable nexus.  Or at least it is in my vision.  My proclamation today is that I finally have a proclamation to make.  Finally.  At nearly age 40.  Ugh, I sigh to myself and I’m pretty sure I did so aloud.  Cant tell with the music in my ears, but I know I did.  I know someone in the department heard me.  Essay… essay… essay… on daddy-ing, wine, reading, journal keeping and habit practice and maintenance, on ME.  I am an essay, and argument maybe.  What’s my argument.  Keep learning, about you.  Learn the outside but the inward is the apexing aim.  To understand self.  How is that vain?  How is that egocentric?  I offer it’s healthy.  And what more optimal approach and averment that with words.

Reading through my journals and diaries today I see these lulls or stalls, funks surface every-so-often.  And now, I forecast less of them, less occurrence and their beat which I loudly detest.  I’m here, gathering thoughts for class, and for me, thinking ‘Who cares.’ With a smile, with eagerness to see more in this day and learn from everything.  If not learn then gather, collect scenes, write them all as there’s singularity in all.  Just a moment ago having quick chat with a full-time professor about beer.  She told me years ago she was a beer fan so every time our presence eclipse, we talk beer. One of the only full-timers here, if not the only, I enjoy talking to.  That I even have any interest in exchanging words.  Note of our talk in journal.  So what.  Little revision, little concern, free in my thoughts.  Could use one of the beers she just mentioned to celebrate.  Do I finally now have a job, a dream job, any job— writing composition.  Who else cares?  I don’t care.  I’m preoccupied with the essay form, and how so many in this department think they know what an essay is.  How to write one.  Where have they been published?  Forget that question… have they even self-published any of their work?  And if so, where is it?  Did they only offer it once?  Maybe some of them can write, but how far away from the course outline have they composed?

Sinew in this renewed page stride.  Edit minimally.  Delete nothing.  Free.  Freedom.  If you’re to write an essay, you’re to surrender to yourself, perforce and ambivalently.  Remembering my master’s thesis, other essays written at SSU, Foothill, even in high school like the one I wrote about Bubba our pet rabbit and how he would always lead me to chase.  Any mood knots remaining are now carrion.  I’m understanding self more in the last hour, since getting to campus than I have in the past ten or so years.  What did that nap do?  Was it the omelet?

(11/5/18)

And I have that again.  That ‘I don’t know what to write again’ feeling. 

Something.  Is it a feeling.  What is it.  Look at me.  I can barely write.  Am I writing now, here in home, lone, listening to Coltrane as I do so often and thinking and thinking to despicable overthought trot.  Receipts next to me I told myself I’d log to inventory somehow, but no….  Dream last night about helping someone write a birthday poem for a friend.  I said something off the top of head and the person liked it.  She told me to write it down, a co-worker at Sonic, handed me her notepad.  More book than pad.  Saw how much she’d written in days recent.  Everything.  Literally everything that happened that day and everyday before that was documented.  Everything from putting money in her wallet for the day, logging that she bought a bottle of water from the snack shop in the building, everything.  Not sure if I got around to writing down what I recited for her, so taken by what she wrote.

Now, I write.  Or try.  What’s with me, lately.  And my writing.  What’s holding me, stopping, stalling me.  Have to figure this out, crack whatever code this is or cut through this fog before 40.  Goddamn that number.  Forget about it, I tell myself.  Don’t think, just write, I tell myself.  Just like one of the students in my class.  The would-be scholars that come into my class, classes, hoping to be better writers.  How’s their instructor, though?  I’m writing, now.  Early in morning, day of daylight savings.  Would be 09:20, but I have 08…. Feel like a warrior, now, taking back my territory, ground, land.  Still having trouble writing, typing.  The jazz helps.  Nothing more I want than this, this right here, establishing whatever legend or story for self I can.  On writing.  On life.  On happiness and singularity.  All of it.  Just writing freely and not looking for any kind of synonym stream or beaming, shiny words to make my prose sound like anything else but me.

What do I write— My surroundings.  So now, here in kitchen with no kids, wife, just these typing fingertips desperate for a story and some direction of something, something that….  Thought of taking pictures, of any nearby vineyard.  But no.  I’m not a photog.  I’m a writer—  A writer who does like to take pictures, yes, but a writer who has plenty of pictures he hasn’t used, of vineyards and other realities and scenes, things and people, so many somethings not yet put to blog or page or given a set of words, or even an acronym.

Kids clothes, pull-ups for daughter, coupon, a bag for something, headphones and a pen, more receipts, a mocha with 4 mighty espresso knocks in it.  I’m here, present in the kitchen presenting my now-self to a later self, hoping that that punctuates a solid sense of self.  Mood, in a one of those shapes of determined and eased confirmation.  Who I am and what I’m doing.  This started this morning, soon as I woke.  I knew, I knew that narrative and personal essay were calling, and I thought of my story…. All the jobs I’ve had.  How sometimes I’m embarrassed by such while others entirely proud and joyous as that’s what’s made me, me.  From the grocery store, to the music story, while in college working in that office for can’t remember what it was, a medical something company that came to your house I think and took blood….  To the wine world.  The wine world.  The story always comes back to that, to them.  Told a friend the other day that the only tasting room I’ll ever again set foot in will be my own.  True, last night I thought sipping the St. Francis Syrah here in home before dinner out.  Wine… wine…. Could write about that in only so many ways, then I think that’s the only thing I should be writing about.  That’s the singularity, that’s the happiness.  That’s where I write, that’s where I find self.  I don’t know… this is a different morning for me as a writer.

Tell self to wash hands of anything stalling me, stopping me, putting up some kind of wall.  All the praise and good write-ups I get for being a professor, or instructor, louden that.  Be active from that.  I know I’m using a lot of ‘I’ in this entry, but I’m just getting started.  Let me warm up a bit.  It’s morning 1.  Of how many?  Don’t know yet.  I don’t quite know where this is going.  I’m not meant to.  I just don’t want to be one of those wishing writers after age 40, or even at that age.

Was near distracted by those receipts, off to left.  To crumble them up and toss them in trash.  No, I told myself.  Stay where you are.  Write.  Write more.  Never be not-writing.  Keep with your composition keep and streak.  Only 08:32, thank whatever.  I need time.  I need this time, time to just be with self, to write, to see where this project, or idea, yet another project or idea is going.  Just see where it’s going, where it’ll take you.  You only have to move, see what happens next.  Knowing answers isn’t the objective.  Explorations is.  Just seeing, wandering, meandering, soaring and not moving wings too much.  Let yourself be careless, free, free in the new freeness you’ve discovered.

Thinking of more Newness to embrace.  That’s an aim that should be pursued.  If you don’t know what to write, or what to create, what to do, just make sure you’re moving.  You’ll find something, something.  And if it takes a while then it takes a while.  Enjoy the journey, enjoy the exploration, enjoy the enjoyment of you decided to move in a decided direction.  Receipts crumbled and tossed into trash.  Now more typed movement to this track.  More New, Newness I can’t let slide or skip away from me.  Teaching self to write and read, completely and wholly over again.  Thinking of jobs again, then forgetting them as soon as they surfaced.  While swim around in past tides where there’s a new one right in front of me.  I see where I’m going…. Have always seen, but always been distracted.

(11/4/18)

11/1/18—

New lunch spot in Berkeley.  Crepevine.  Ordered Denver Omelette with Coke.  Eating by self on a lunch break, finally.  No reps or leads with me.  And I love my crew, truly love.  But I needed a minute or set of minutes to self, to collect.  To write.

Lady brings over Coke and I’m more than content with my choice.  Other lunches I can cite I regret ordering what I did and not spending the time writing or doing something for writing, blogging, business.  Something.  The music of the day is more than just an encouraging nudge, but a direct instruction to make everything of the day I want it to be.  For a minute considering dropping the only class I have for next semester, but then rationalize it a marketing opportunity, and speaking practice.  Or, not so much practice but a training lab or ground for ideas new.  I see the chef or cook making my plate.  This town, as I’ve always seen it, one of activism of course but art, people and poetry, art and music, expression and freedom.  So I write in the same sense and sameness.

Chef brings over brunch.  Looks indescribable, if you must know.  You must know, I tell myself, and you. These Road notes, city to city speaking Sonic engaging the population and principle communities.  I want just a couple more sentences.  Tell self to put down just a couple more, older guy on other side of restaurant with wife and friend, looking at menus while group of younger girls sits outside and laughs, enjoying their mimosas and talking to each potter like they haven’t seen each other in ages.  This is what I do.  Write at cafés, restaurants, random places and what’s happening— Chef tosses a bunch of clean silverware in the holder at distant 12, on the other side of the counter.  Cook is on other side prepping plates, cooking or boiling, simmering something.

My time in Berkeley before working with Sonic is limited, to be brief.  I came here a couple times when I lived in San Ramon, early 2000s.  But now I’m here quite regularly.  And the feel and voice is perfect for where I am in my story.  Looking for more, more stories and more people, more experiences that contribute to my business identity and aims.  Sounds of the restaurant move me, provoke more.  I’m right where I need be.  This is where my story really begins its composition and construction.  If the Roads of Sonic and I never intersected I wouldn’t be here with this view of Shattuck, eating here, with this cold Coke, the omelette, the sliced sourdough toast, the ladies just outside the window at the small table eating salads.

Nearly done with lunch, thinking of getting a refill of Coke so I can write for a bit longer, just stay here and enjoy my time, the time to me to collect.  Lady sees me either getting ready to leave, or that’s what I think she thought I was about to do but I ask her if refills are free, she says yes and rushes to get me another.  All that remains on plate is some of the country potatoes and the sliced sourdough, which is surprisingly sour.  I’ve never found sourdough bread sour, really.  These slices are.  Not to their detriment, just I notice, that’s all

This will be my last meal out, in field, for a while.  That’s what I say now but who knows if I’ll hold to that.  Want to open a store, store front of some kind, or at least have my office set up.  Yeah, that’s what I really mean.  Just my office, my blogging hut, little literary parlor, outside home.  I pick at the bread, again.  I’m unusually relaxed.  And not just here at Crepevine, here in Berkeley, but today.  Today is a day for me like few are.

Catch myself spacing out a bit, and pull myself back to keys.  UPS driver a couple tables behind me having something for his lunch break I calculate, then chef tells one of the girls from outside group that he’s going to bring out some specialty crepe, complimentary.  I look up at see Chef holding crepe on plate with some mint leaves around it and a birthday candle.  Woman comes back in to check on it carrying her little one.  Candle lit and Chef’s daughter, I’m assuming walks it out, carefully.  She looks uncomfortable in each step, like she’s never walked out a candled plate before.  Hear them all singing, then clapping, then nothing but cars on Shattuck and the music they have playing in car.

What’s right in front of me, what I write about.  At least now.  And maybe onward.  Take fork into hand scooping some peppers and bit of onion and potato, bite.  Wonder how I’m still hungry but I only had that cereal at desk this morning.  I look down at a more barren plate and realize I am still hungry.  Need to wait.  Need to write, what’s here for me in Berkeley, my new writing city, the streets and communities and the more collective community of this area.  Couple more bites and push plate forward with napkin atop.  I’m done.  Now, just sipping the Coke refill and typing.  Man walks in and asks questions then leaves, thanks the lady for something.  Directions possibly.  I can see this as me when I’m on the Road, like this but more expansively, in other states and countries.  What’s in front of me, my topic.  Restaurant staff ever-observant of what happens around them, who’s here and who’s walking by and the ones that actually stop here.  And am I ever please with my election to here stop, order the Denver, sit here by window.

Readying to leave.  Walk over to crew in the Safeway parking lot.  Chef talks to hostess, which I think might be his wife.  He jokes with her about a dollar bill, about money or something.  All in fun and good.  Feel a bit tired, sip Coke, more people come in.  Rub right eye once.  Then I tell self not to leave.  I don’t want to leave.  Pies in display case behind me and to left, chef and consistent cook laughing about something.  Wanting a shop of my own…. But of what.

Not going to get in 3000 words today, just like I won’t more than likely even get in a thousand, or like I didn’t wake at 4am.  I’m on campus, after a beer much needed, and now I’m composed, with character composition, or so I tell self.  Ready to be home.  Tomorrow morning I vowed to workout buddy and self that I’d be on the treadmill.  4-something A.M.  Who knows.  Today was odd.  Not bad, or negative or something bringing me to some lower ebb or rhythm, just odd.  Off.  Off-putting.  How do I get out of it, by pulling self out of it, thinking of my daughter this morning in her pink or light purple Batgirl dress.  How happy she was once putting it on and how much in loud screech objection that she made sure I heard and succumbed to.  I’m here, on campus, thinking of essays to write… about work, about wine, about music, about jazz, about me, about essays…. Sonoma County, the fires last year, making wine, my sister making wine, driving, being an adjunct… anything.  I’m in thought and won’t let self step out of its clef.

Why did I start the piece proclaiming there was something I either wouldn’t or couldn’t do.  Maybe I will hit 1000, or 3000.  Who says I can’t.  If I overthink or excessively measure as I did early today and in fact all the way to this sitting, even when sitting in the Whole Foods taproom seeing self tonight and what I wouldn’t teach and what I didn’t write today at lunch, telling self I’d go to a Starbucks and write when really all I did was have a sandwich at another Whole Foods and talk about he wine industry with an old friend.  Should have written but pushing self with the fact I didn’t is an anti-fact, serving no purpose for purposes of reflection or growth.  Certainly not any kind of success.  I’m putting certain projects on hold, deleting rather than adding.

York Peppermint Patties on one of the conference room tables.  On my second.  One of the few candies I’ll actually if I see, eat.  Too relaxed to teach.  Need a glass of wine, some freewriting, some time with kids, in home, family time that I won’t ever be able to get back and wouldn’t have if I we’re to stay for the whole 90 minutes I’m expected to lecture.  But I was just evaluated.  Received a yell, a howl, a loud choir of praise on page.  But, now what?  What happens now?  Will I be more able to land a FT position, were I to apply?  No. Do I get a raise?  No.  So… where’s the encouragement?

I move away from that topic and back to the day, back to writing, back to knowing that more self-study’s ordered.  An instructor walks by the room, down the hall, into mailroom.  He checks his little box or slot then walks off.  No headphones.  My jazz, Mr. Coltrane, loud.  Or audible, at any rate.

I’m awake and working out.

Did first hold right before five. After that, push-ups and planks. Some sit-ups. Not really counting, just wanting to keep motion continuous. Set stop watch, not a countdown. Just keep the motion motioned, what I’m telling self. 05:12.

Conscious of the noise and mood of the morning. Everything I do on this hardwood or just wood floor make a sound, loud thin and audible. Like an airy crack, or crackle. Wife leaves for her workout offsite. I start coffee. Vowing tomorrow morning with the day off I’ll go to gym at 4-something. Not only enhance the shape I’m in, but start a new way, new story. Yes another promise, more so though a plan than remark avowing anything.

Can already feel the little I’ve done. In legs from hold, abdomen from pushups just a moment ago tallying 100, and arms from planks and pushups. Time for coffee.

Didn’t post thousand words from last night before class. Will today from whatever coffee spot I can find in the Sunset. Sight 1 for day is that, coffee and composition in the City. Second, hit a few doors with the reps. Then, a poem while walking whatever avenue we’re on. One of the views yesterday from 28th and something, I just looked out at the ocean like I saw something or someone in it. The air’s olfactory makeup told me to keep walking and keep watching. Feeling some goal or aim, some aspiration or creative desire sprint from San Francisco, for me. And if it weren’t for Sonic I wouldn’t even be there having these observations and reflections.

05:31. Waking this early, a badge of sorts. Hear son move around in his bed, and if he wakes early and breaks this sitting, I don’t mind. It’s part of the story. Part of the story but the whole of who I am– writing daddy getting in whatever time I can to write. At work at my desk between little addresses of some spreadsheet, or organizing, or prepping for some meeting. The subject is me. The story, each page, and I never need be sorry.

The workout, over. Me on couch in qualified dark, fan light overhead on my dim setting so I can have some isolator writer mood in here. I keep forgetting it’s harvest right now, and so many of my vino people are out there, right now, pulling clusters from rows and into bins, into a gondola pulled by tractor, a driver up early and away from his family, doing what he needs to them feed.

05:36. I feel like one of them, right now. One of the early. One of the characters they defies law, the expected, that doesn’t sleep in. They can’t. Their minds won’t let them. Mine won’t let me. At all. This morning I’m alive with Sonic and supersonic thoughts of speaking, words, fearlessly sharing ideas from one city to next on work, business, writing everything down and so many say that and never do and if they did, my god, it would not only help what they do but wildly and poetically shape their business and their place and placement in it.

Could go back to bed even if a writer wanted to. Hell, even if my body and functioning orders em to. My thinking’s of a beatific defiance this morning, and only accepting sentences. As a workplace, Sonic tells you to be more of you, it challenges me and how the wine industry never could– Telling me to not only keep doing what I’m doing, but intensify. AMPLIFY. Diversify. Play with form as you do in poetry, poet. And more. More.

05:41. I ask myself where the time went and nowhere, nowhere. It’s still very much presented and around me, present. Gifting me with this couch and all the musing I need for a day in the city. Will I wake as early tomorrow, or early as I have written… I have to. I know how I’ll feel if I don’t. I know my mood if I won’t. Set alarm, every movement today for tomorrow’s early steps and words, lines, however many miles I run on tread or however many reps I finish. Not waking early, and I’m citing hours like this, is in no way literary. Writers don’t sleep in. We can’t sleep, for the most part. We deplore rest, and idleness. Just laying in bed and scrolling, sitting on couch watching a show, or just hanging like a coat from some hook, some executed prisoner from a tight meanly knotted and enclosing circle.

05:47. I love this. I do. I don’t have to think about what to write. It’s right in front of me, blatantly. No sun or suggestion of it through the glass door to right. This is true morning to me. When the sun steps and straight lay stands communicating with the world, its day. It’s started. The day is off and you better find a way to catch it as right now you’re surely not ahead if you haven’t been up. I’m here, knowing I’m ahead of the day. Time again, my topic. Twelve hours from now, I could very well be in traffic. On 101 somewhere. San Rafael, the Novato narrows, Petaluma. Somewhere. I have twelve hours to do something to my story… I do it. Start the timer. 12 hours. Get to work and collect in writing for a bit, then attack tasks. Reps get in before ten, so we head out early. Quick, this Friday. My writing will equal, rival, buzz by pacing.

Son definitely awake. 05:52. I could get a stet in day, again. Teeth and shower, dress, pack, take stuff out of bag as to bring laptop for written lunch and be lighter while hiking the SF streets. Keep the motion motioned. To halt is to fall. And I can’t. Not this close to 40.

Diet for day… Coffee, only healthy snacks, no full meals till dinner, and then do note to lightly eat. Speaking of my beloved coffee life… I sip…

10/5/18