On April 1 Eve

So it is Sunday morning and I have a pot of coffee, french-pressed because I love the sludge it leaves at the bottom of the cup.  What will tomorrow bring?  What will April bring?  What rough beast...

I am thinking Whitman.  But it won't be "the blab of the pave."  No, more like the whispers of the dirt road, the Southern dirt road.  Tobacco Road.  The me inside, not the mask that I wear.  I am thinking long, pre-dawn walks along the Potomac River.  I am thinking the beauty of the women of my people, and the immortality of the soul, and the indomitability of the human spirit.  All our people.  All our souls.  All our spirits.

Perhaps we'll link up in this exercise, me and my ModPo colleagues (you know who you are!).  What I write will certainly be influenced by readings and discussions from Know Thyself, a Coursera course I am taking from the University of Virginia.  And there will be traces of thoughts from Songwriting, another Coursera course from the Berklee School of Music that ends early in the month.  This Coursera thing is a cult, you know...

So it is Sunday morning and I am going for the second cup.  Toss in a pod of cardamon for a slight narcotic effect.  Sip slowly.  "Write fearlessly."