12 Jan

In the mode and mood of a student, this morning.  Reading through some Kerouac poems, and short Hughes pieces as well.  I’m not in the wine character, not yet.  Even though I am here in the tasting room, writing looking down at laptop, on table that’s not even at knee level.  This morning has an odd profile.  Not sure how to translate it.  But, I want to write papers.  I want to take notes.  I want to study.  I want to pull all-nighters again.  Looking at fog through trees by Sauvignon Blanc lot.  What do I do with today? How do I get to Paris, write like my former student does against deadlines?  Today, I write bottomless from the bottom-barrel-bottom of my sight, sense, story and reality.

The cold brew I’m sipping through a barely functional straw aggravates me.  I’m a cranky student, just wanting to graduate… see my city again, for the first time since ’09, which would only be the second time in total.  I tell myself to calm down, like a winemaker visiting a collection of barrels and something tastes.. just off.  Don’t panic.  Pull a sample, go to lab, work with what’s in front of you.  At lunch today… write introductory paper on Hughes, for students this semester… more notes to self and— ugh!  Forgot to get new journal at CVS on Yulupa after getting this ineffective cold brew, or cold press, or whatever it’s called.  I don’t think it’s working.  I don’t feel that activity that I usually do from caffeine.

Kerouac in his association with truth and music, that music is the sole truth in our story.  Today, I bop around the property.  Around the tasting room and in the cave, readying for tomorrow’s event, knowing that at lunch I’ll get to write my paper— rhythmic rebellion, with grace and decision, concerning Langston of course.  My pulse is elevated, finally.  Ready for the semester… emboldened.  The best semester, ever.  For all of us.  All is musical, for the next 18 or so weeks.  Looking down at this laptop, I’m really looking up— to new chapters for me and anyone in the classroom with me.

08:57… Day barely in its revolution and order.  I’m there with it.. just in incremental inception.  Thinking.. how do I get to… never mind.  Reading, noting, planning yes but more actuation that tenure at a drawing board.  Our literature, as students, is not theoretical, or something intangible.  It’s happening right now, transpiring in front of us.  This is only a reason to be enthralled.  Study your own steps, madly.  Be tireless.  Like my former student, completing her, I think, 14-page paper, expression an intersection of excitement and exhaustion, hunger and wonder (my read of the scene, anyway), I’m in task.  Burying self willingly under pages of past masters and mine own.  A prime precipice.  Only opportunity.  So I dive into anything I can read, all on pages all.  This is more than a simple mood, and definitely not a mode, I can now see.  But, rather, an order.  A new order, ordered.  I’ll never be caged.  I’m a bird, and I am meant to be aloft.

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