Soccer game is almost over. The air is cold. I left my water bottle at home. I’m thirsty. It’s nice to be out at night. 10 minutes 27 seconds left in the game. I’m here. That’s what I’m feeling. For five seconds. I’m just here. Under the big lights. With the car we spent $1800 to fix behind me. Kate’s with the baby. I thought the game was over. But they’re playing a third half. Soccer girls form a huddle around the smaller version of themselves. Nevermind the game. Ellie wants to sleep. In my left hand I have a bottle one-quarter full of breast milk. The air is getting colder. There’s a slight breeze. Two of my students are playing on the field. For one team. Many more students play for the other. I leave Georgia in a month. Teaching is conducting a revolution one student at a time. It’s satisfying. The girls on the field are yelling. Calling for the ball. I’m talking into a phone. I’m happy to be here. I’m happy for Marcy‘s comment yesterday. The shower is sacred space, appreciate it Ryan you fool. If you think about it and you say fuck off enough to plow away the Hallmark fake feeling, everywhere becomes a sacred space. Just a matter of getting out of your own head. I’m going to work on his project with the artist friend named Bradley who wore blue for year. I’m interested in the question of how we learn to see yourselves. Or if it’s even possible to see ourselves like others see us. Without a mirror, it’s not really possible. If my whole life I’ve been not seeing myself. Now I’m trying to. Which means I’m trying to listen. Maybe I haven’t been listening because I’m talking too much, writing too much, thinking too much. This is why meditation is good. Shut off doing. Seven minutes and 44 seconds left. The ref looks tired. He’s walking. Very slowly. Looks hungry. I’m hungry. And thirsty. Kate and I had sausage and pepperoni pizza for dinner. I asked her if she wanted avocado on her side and she made a face and said no so I had the whole thing. Cut up into little cubes. With red onions and cilantro. I love pizza. Six minutes left. This is an unofficial game, a friendly. Just for training. For fitness, the head coach says. I ran yesterday for the first time. 3 miles. My legs felt like lumber. It felt good to have legs feel like lumber. Marcy makes a good point. Do you ever just enjoy the moment? It’s a good question. Think I’m so busy thinking, so busy writing, so busy trying to figure things out I never just sit. Four minutes and 50 seconds left. The score is red. I’m hungry but I’m not eating. My students recorded themselves speaking a stream of consciousness journal recording—a personal podcast—for today’s class. They’re so interesting but they don’t know how interesting they are. Other people’s lives are so interesting. They don’t see themselves. We need to tell ourselves positive things. Tell myself that Alt Dad is dope. Tell myself that I’m dope. I’m dope. I’m so fucking dope. I’m the king of dope. I’m the king of kings of king of kings of king of kings of dope. I’m so fucking dope and now I’m smiling. Four minutes left. Paragraphs. Not as cool and connected and FLOW as DOPE as one single block, mmmmm one thick slice of bacon. I love the stadium lights at night. The glow.The temperature of 62°. 61°. 60°.I’m dope I’m dope I’m dope I’m dope. If you say it fast enough. Sounds like you’re a rapper. Becomes it’s own beat. I’m dope I’m dope I’m dope I’m dope.