I’m in a funny shape of character this morning. Not sure how to describe it with any wheel of precision, but just know I’m tilted somehow. Wouldn’t even say negatively… Forwarded some articles to a student, for her final paper on Gats[by]. Have some poems prepared for The New Yorker, and know which will be put into the 26-page chap. Should probably bring Comp Book, P&W Mag, and some Kerouac to work with me, have a dingy 30-minute Lit Lunch. […] So odd. I have no idea what’s with me this morning. Probably just that I’m expecting more mania in the tasting room. Not excited to see how much longer I can keep this up. There’s no newness there, and certainly no thought– it’s blind repetition, looking through the window of an abandoned mind. 8:16AM. And this gist just twists.. my mood, what am I this morning? Poet or novelist.. would like to think both. But I need to switch modes, be more poetic, be more Beat. Kerouac orders it, and so I jump from this journal to the next, and don’t care about consequence. If I didn’t have to work today, or only had to write, I’d be at the foot of Hood Mt like I was yesterday morning. Think I’m tired. That has to be it… Just the mood of someone working hard, or maybe too hard, or too much. My fault I guess, for being responsible.