On campus. About to walk to room. Emeritus 1610. How many fucking classes have I taught in that room. I don’t even think I’m capable of calculating or inventorying. Notes prepped, more or less, and Kerouac’s book looks back at me, almost like it’s posing, “Again, Mikey?” Yes, again. We all need answer to our calls to travel and break cast, sever mold, free self from shackles and inner battles.
The American Dream, in this book explored. Or is it more than anything American? Maybe it’s just human, me right now in this conference room where I’ve written thousands of times. This campus, these thoughts, my first term teaching here, fucking 12 years ago. But I’ve grown quicker, more hungry, with more loving and creative ire.