Home from dinner at parents.  Last night to self in home.  Glass of last night’s red at left and I don’t know if I’ll open that other bottle, a Cab, I had my eye on.  Tonight, one of music.  Writing by hand, in Germany Journal.  Bed earlier than last night.  Alarm set for morning.  Can settle on a treadmill bit of speed work or a run later in morning from Bennett Valley and into Howarth Park, Annadel.  Writing business plan in head for remainder of night.  In bed by 11:30, latest.  Till then, write poetry in pages, listen to music.  I’ve realized this so many times more before, but all in my story must center around and stem from poetry.  Which is music, you know I believe and see.  Will let my pen talk, do the work not for me but with me. The quiet of this little family home, heater on, wine nearly gone.  Going over my life in head after talking to Mom and Dad about family friend that literally just passed, matter of days ago, finding I’m just a passer of ways to know.  Or so…. Night telling me to slow, more collect and deconstruct not be so abrupt.  I’m home.. not just in this structure, but in poetry, the lines and beats, rhymes and syllable play, but thoughts on a paper tray.

Waiting for an idea, something to shove me one way or another.  Maybe I’ll get it on my run in the morning, or later morning, early afternoon.  Life, just walking away from us like a like a royal not interested in the common glass.  Time just sees through us, not even ignoring us.  To ignore is to exert something, some energy or interest or effort.  Time doesn’t do that.  So, then, I need that Cabernet to write more in this life and clock fray.


Laptop suddenly working. Don’t get it. Doesn’t matter. It’s getting replaced. First day of new semester. Class starts in 4 min, 1 hour. I’ll be in classroom earlier than that, obviously, if there’s not one of those mindless instructors that is in no way aware of the possibility that another teacher may need the room. Introducing narrative, tonight. The singular idea that will dominate the semester. Narrative…. telling stories. Telling your own story. Knowing your story. Just wrote that last sentence into journal. The Germany journal. What will the students this semester be like. I keep wondering but with so much need to know. It will take a while term to know.

No lunching out, today. Must say I’m pleased with my discipline and poise, for once. Need at least 2k for new laptop. Just updated the OS, here in office. See if this does anything. Doesn’t matter like I said. Quiet in the adjunct cell… good to be back on campus, in Professor Mikey mode. Sharing ideas, knowing students and the student experience better. Put quarters in pocket to go get coffee. Could use a coffee now. Beats always drink coffee, no matter time of day or how it may impact sleep. Who cares. Off to get a cup. Don’t worry, small.

6:15. Back in office. With decaf. Decaf. I ordered decaf. Mainly from being charged and directed in energy enough from today itself, training new hire and now in my element of elements sharing ideas in the classroom.

Everything out on this desk, in this shared office like every other semester on the first day. 17 minutes for computer, in whatever it’s doing. Who knows if it’ll work— WHY DO YOU KEEP THINKING THAT? You’re shedding it anyway, that devil thing you call a writing tool and think a necessity.

Another note in journal, for class— Your decisions in how you read and write, and immediately write from your experiences, or write your story, make loud your thoughts in the present.


Been writing in more than one place for the ’19 story.  Oh well I say to myself with another glass of sparkling, Jackie over there playing on the tablet my mom and dad bought him this past xmas.  Nothing I’m writing lately I’m liking.  Certainly not loving.  So what’s the bandage for that?  One part of me says just write free, with less shackle and inner-hassle.  What’s that mean I don’t know so I re-focus on Jack.  The day he and I have had, his sister too.  She now off with wife and wife’s friend and wife’s friend’s daughter to Target to get who knows what.  Kerouac has some inner dialogue with himself regarding the game, if it’s a game or some scholastic, learning program…. “Jack, what are you doing?  What are you playing with?” He gives a bit of a mumble but I’m not convinced that was directed at me.  He goes back to doing that, whatever that is.  He rests the right side of his face in his right palm, right elbow on right inner-thigh as he sits on floor, legs crossed and lightly locked.  We just spent the past couple hours watching football.  Playoffs.  Or postseason.  Chicago versus Eagles, in Chicago.  Eagles pulled it by a point.  Just one.  I of course was on CHI’s side for various reasons—none of which I’ve told you so I guess I shouldn’t write “of course”—and so was Jack.  Both us disappointed in the result.  But we move on.  He with his game, or learning program, me with words and this morning before our together time, and time with his sister, a 7-mile run which I now feel.

Hoping to get some reading in, tonight.  Hemingway, Coelho, Plath, Hughes….  Not sure I’ll touch all four books, but one of them I’m rather confident.  Need to write more poetry, read Hughes more, and other poets like Cummings, Plath of course, Yeats, and from that collection of several poets I was gifted years ago.  Today teaches me to not work against existing momentum, ever.  What you want to do with the day is one matter, what you’re able to do and what you can do with what is present is quite another write.

Writing everything down….  Jack, quite poised and careful how he touches that screen. Face Ibn right palm, again.  He says nothing to me on his own, and I don’t want to break his connection to his current action so I just push these buttons while I look at him.  My little boy who daily loses his littleness to time— Time, that fucking animal, devouring all of us as a matter of duty and functionality, normalcy.  Why I deplore normalcy, the patterns.  The expected.  The unavoidable tumult of the clock.  I look at reflection, mine, and can see changes in my face, around the mouth and eyes.  Forty this year— fuck.  Have I lost some of my awareness and writing ability?  Am I starting to fade?  Looking over at little Kerouac, my little beat.  He’ll keep me young.  His sister, too.

Day’s end, and

Pinot is there to ease me, sing and educate, provoke meditation and new sight, exploration of prior hours. She instructs the writer to not work as hard, not feel so obligated to fill a page. See the room you’re in, she says. Walls sing alongside her and the floral scape of her animated way.

Your story

self-emboldened and chosen,

note only your own onus and token–

Ode hardly frozen, dose

Posted, over into a dragon shoulder–

Know it’s only your own aims that

need immediate explain, and solely to you

move true..

…will run from this street, this Autumn Walk horseshoe Drive.  Head up San Miguel, left on Coffey, then back.  Short run, today.  Then more words, then jazz, the new couch, what’s the first thing I’ll write while on it sitting.  What thought will materialize and actualize from those new and unfamiliar seats, cushions.  When I first moved into this house, I saw it with a concerned and cornered eye.  Not sure how to write in the walls— a new house, thinking Do I write differently? And how do I interpret what’s around me.  Not sure where I’m going in this thought walk, but there I am, here I am, again… where I am and what I’m doing.  Running from one sentence to the next, encouraged by Coltrane, his track right now, the fact that I’m writing in this house, still, even past whatever thoughts I had on writing in the house and the spinning spell of that meta….  Present in this identity, seat, roll in thoughts and repeat.

“All Mornin’ Long”, which features Coltrane, is freeing and like an audible freewrite.  If you listen, you’ll sense the liberation and noted pleasure escalation within the music itself.  Coltrane, speaking then letting the other speak.  Not sure who’s on trumpet, but I miss the sax…