December 13, 2004
The roshi stamps barefoot into the hall, robes askew. Glaring at his students, he snarls, "My only child, my daughter, died today. So what?" He waits for someone to answer. He is looking at you. Answer him!
Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy... Submissive to everything, open, listening... Something that you feel will find its own form. --Jack Kerouac, from "Belief and Technique for Modern Prose"