  Im high again tonight. Not on drugs, bien sur. Ive just had another blissful night of class in Dawn Formos Virginia Woolf seminar. Its so challenging and so insightful, I feel part of something worth while, something really at the heart of why I study literature in the first place. Were delving into the nature of biography as a dishonest classification. Into the perceived necessity for plot in the novel.
Talking about so many things that spark my lust for knowing. Or at least thinking, considering complicated subjects in depth, continually being challenged to think deeper. And engaging in conversation with some really educated minds. And hell, I even made a poignant contribution to the discussion tonight. Really nailed something about a hypothetical question we were asked about VWs writing, how we would understand her work if the class required only that we read _Jacobs Room_. Her novel was experimental in style and form and seemed a sketchbook of a novel in progress rather than a finished product.
It felt like reading an outline of her creative mind, a precursor to her later work. Its more a necessary step before being able to write _Mrs. Dalloway_, the novel that followed _Jacob_. We stayed late and mulled over our presentation ideas. Dawn was impressed with the depth and breadth of our conversation having overheard part of it from the other side of the room. I just dig her.
Bryan can testify here: (black Baptist voice can I get a witness?! ) Shes perdy. Any accolades I receive from the woman register with added currency. I made her laugh earlier during group work, causing her to grab onto my shoulders as she stood beside us. Instinctively, I reached back and grabbed one of her hands. Maybe shouldnt have actually held it.
Once it happened, I realised how intimate it was. I noticed the change within myself, the parts of my mind that felt a triggering. Yet I know her and she knows me. It seemed natural so natural. But then thats me. It wasnt awkward at all.
She made no move to withdraw from the show of affection. It was nice, really. We like each other. On different levels, sure. I ended the night with all the firepower of a forward warming up in my best boots on a perfect pitch. A football/soccer reference if youre not used to the language.
I wanted to run. I crave a run. It has already happened, you guys. I have the bug. I have the lust for pounding pavement. Its the more fulfilling thing.
Even sex can be disappointing for a number of reasons. But running its the best sublimation activity on earth. It fills me. Its all I need to be whole. Alas, my ankle is throbbing as I write. And this after taking the whole day off.
So I came home instead to a bottle of Kendall Jackson Pinot Noir and a sweet, soft feeling in my belly. I took off my shoes at the door as usual, placed them neatly with the sandals, and walked around on the fleshy new carpet in my sock with all the bliss of bare feet on wet grass. I had another moment of sudden and separated consciousness; when you slip out of the now and perceive time and experience more objectively, more universally. My home, my own, my safe and lovely place I have to come back to and indulge in my very individualised mode of living. I have such immeasurable personal freedom here. This is my sanctuary, and tonight I kiss it to thank the space for being here.
For my being present enough to appreciate it. Oh, and just like that the rain starts up again. For those of you who know me, I worship the rain. Plan my funeral on a rainy day, ok? Something intense, dramatic passionate bursts of water rushing to the ground. I love it.
Im so happy watching it come down here. Trickles of water streak my windows, set to a background of black and bits of yellow dotting the distance. Its never enough. Its a thirst this climate cant quench. When was I last as happy as I am tonight? You know, I think I could point to it.
I can remember  its not that rare of a thing these days. God bless my progress. 
