At the counter sipping my beer and

watching the Niners-Bronco’s game, I thought of my self in another city, and how that would feel, what I’d be writing if I were on travel. The beer was cold and just the temperature needed for end of day — working in my book for what seems like a life, a life with distorted time sense. Coming semester could very well be the final. This is my final exam, and I’m intent on acing it. Writing what I need to to solely be governed by my stream of pages. It will happen. It has to happen. Self-absorbed narrator, so what. I ignore my momentary insecurity and sip the beer. Watch the game. Pre-season but oh well, it’s football. I miss football. Even though I’m a baseball guy, I love the game, the run plays, the play with the clock. But I’m too distracted by the thought of my travel eventual, how music will sound in hotel lobbies, what the people will look like as they pass out of the corner of my eye — my thinking just leads me and in imaginative irrationality. I need travel. Sooner than soon. I get quite agitated when people mention how much they travel for work and say so like it’s such a bare. I don’t get it. This semester will change everything. Going to teach like I’m already there, with the finished book, with the travels… Beer done, young girls on phone, and so am I. They send pictures and text messages to their “friends” or other others in their lives, I make memoir notes. I’ve never worked in a restaurant. Not even in college. Why. How. How did I escape that? Seems like some mandatory transition everyone has to pass. An exam of its own onus. But I’ve never done it. I start to obsess over and in all these young characters around me. Bringing people their meals and many times dealing with assholes, hoping for a tip and getting nothing — and how do they carry like six plates with two arms? I could never do that. My job is the writer. Quietly observing, maybe a bit sinisterly. Watching their rush, their staring at computer screen registers, crumbling receipts, talking to their bully manager who’s such a fucking service expert, then they go to the back to check on an order. Interesting, I think. What are they talking about, those two waitresses over there, by the bar corner, near where I was sitting? The counter, reminded me how necessitated travel is as a writer. I was imagining. That imagining need to stop, become actually actualized, become my actuality. This coming semester, that starts in a matter of hours, really, is the definition of my definiteness. It need be poetic from pulse one to last. sure I’ll think about this on tomorrow morning’s run. Class one, then two, and all the way to Week 18. “Plan, for once!” I order Self. Follow-through. Right? Yes. Can’t thank that counter enough. That beer, the game on the screen, the odd couple to my right, lone chat at left. All for story’s purposes. This all is. Think… Weather, travel, the organic in expressing yourself in writing… hmm, I think, ideas for day one. 4th quarter, under 2 minutes…

(8/20/16)