Up. 7:34am. Thought I was out of home coffee till I rediscovered the plastic container in fridge, bought not long after Jack was born. Date on it was Feb something, this year. It’s brewing now, see how bad it is. I smelled the grounds.. aromatics seemed a bit off, or flat. Again, we’ll see. Today marks the final stake in this grading pile’s tarred heart. What do I think of my students‘ writing, overall, in both 302 and 100? 302: not as weak, scattered as I expected at term’s ignition; 100: much stronger than I could have estimated, no matter how many times I’ve taught that class [which is quite a few].
Feel still affected by Meritage pouring last night. Not sure why, I didn’t have that much. I don’t think. Just nosed coffee, took small sip… Like my friend Zach, and sister Katie, have always told me with winemaking: “Trust your palate.” And this coffee, no longer living. It DOES have this sterile flatness to it; dead palate, soiled nose. Disgusting. Need to go to that corporate bean brothel down the street, I guess, for my morning mocha. This A.M. beckoning 4 shots. Little Kerouac doing what he always does at this wee clock block: read his little books. Hoping he stays in this habit till my old age, beyond. The other day, at dentist, the man called in before was reading some book, a classic it appeared as the binding, cover, were dated. What was I, the English “professor” turning? Pages of some food magazine. Need to read more, besides these bloody papers. And with only teaching 1 class come Fall, I will. Need to finish The Paris Wife, Kerouac’s On the Road, revisit Mr. Emerson’s work, Poe, Plath, Shakur, even e.e. cummings. Anything but what I’m contracted to do. Who’s to flash I can’t begin today, as there are only 8 meetings left, counting tonight’s hours and finals week.
7:47am. You know I’ve never flown a 747, all my years growing up an airline brat? Not sure if that’s a significant detail, but it’s truth. Blinds pull 25% left, tilted to openness. Grey, all in sky. Not like past days of summer illustration. JAckie, reading Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. I’ll even have time to read books of that stripe, come Fall. And in Summer! As I thankfully have no sections lined up for the hotter months. And most importantly, I’ll be able to spend more time with little Kerouac, my favorite character. Now, he crawls from floors near territory to afar, where he just pushed ball, down hall. And now back. He rolls it towards me. Stops. Again begins. Would sacrifice an arm to know what he’s thinking, how he deconstructs all around him, what he does, the reactions.. his reasoning, his calculations [if any].
Need that coffee, just setting foot into 8am’s hour. [8:05a, presently] Still thinking about winemaking lesson yesterday, especially yeast activity, effectiveness of reusing lees, blending tanks. So much to learn, what I love…
Hunting for music. New tracks to inspire mine, be it poem, song– Moving fervently this morning. My reflective folio, finding new port I feel, with this docking in wine’s velocipede. I’m just starting, and that’s what the verses are for: centering Self.