0647, and

the writing starts.  48 hours from now in class sharing ideas as I always have but different, feeling more aeonian this morning than I usually do and I’m certain that’s the proximity of the semester speaking to me, telling me “put all your words here”— then the thought interrupted by my daughter looking up at the room’s light intentionally dimmed as I hate when it’s too beaming and blaring but she looks up at it as if some divine eye flirts with her, instructs her what to do with her day as the semester does me.  The semester will have started, two days from where I now sit.  I’ll be getting ready for class and on my who-knows-what-th cup of medium roast.  This morning is one of those mornings and I’ve been wading in them quite a bit, of late, those telling me to not care and to just write, stick to what gives me the thrills, or ‘kicks’, the teaching, the pages, turning them… lecturing from them.

First couple sips and I already senses that precipitating inferno.  More than one foot in front of the other.  A singularized stampede of ideas.  Not idealism, or the idyllic portrait everyone has in their head.  But, ideas.  Those fiery and revealing notions and possibles that anyone can attain, frankly.  They simple have to acknowledge the level of truth in their conviction, and follow-through.  Like Emerson noted, I’m ‘giving this the arrangement of my own mind, and uttering it again.’ This semester will be one explosive, on several dimensional levels.  And looking at my daughter I know I have to staple markers in the semester, points at which certain realities must be accomplished, not just say “this is going to be my best semester ever and I’m going to be traveling as a result of it.”

NOTE TO STUDENTS:  Gift yourself elevated goals, ones challenging and inwardly vocal.  And don’t be afraid of not reaching them.  Don’t entertain not reaching them.  That’s not a possibility in this new mind.  What is possible, and wildly likely, is holding what you sought upon the term’s close.

Can’t tell if Ms. Austen becomes agitated or she’s having a time to herself in the bassinet, staring up at that light.  Her eyes seem to be getting heavy…  And she cries, or starts, accompanied quicker breathing…

I hold her for about 25 minutes or so and can’t wait to return to the coffee and lines imbued in the semester’s already-seraphic hue.  Former students messaging me at the end of last semester saying how my teaching style is the most exciting they’ve ever seen, and how it’s their best English class ever…  Which I appreciate.  BUT, I have to feel that way, about my own teaching, about the semester itself, and about my empiricism.  It has to impact me, I as well need to instruct ME alongside the student body.

Ms. Emma, my petit professeur, may be waking up, hip to the placement of her wee vessel in the bassinet while she slept.  I tried to pull one fast and I may be getting caught.

Need to read more.  I’ll start with the books I was recently sent from Amazon (one for semester, the other two on teaching at the college level).  I’ll start today, after this entry.  Or later in day when little Kerouac naps.

Coffee a bit cooler but I don’t mind.  Sometimes I prefer cold coffee.  Something occurs with the texture that I quite enjoy.  Thicker, or slower moving.  More connection and intimacy, more touch—  Emma stops moving, she sleeps, head turned slightly to her left in that rocking open oval, with blanket that’s so sedating in its texture that I want it in my rest place.  But I can’t do that to her.  It’s hers.  She’s already taught me so much about my character and goals, and what I see from myself, from her father, what I want her father to be doing.  WRITING.  TEACHING.  Which he already is.  But he has to build.  And he has 18 weeks.