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# "A Regular Tuesday" from Running to the Mountaintop
- URL: https://framboisearchives.net/a-regular-tuesday-from-running-to-the-mountaintop/
- Published: 2026-08-19T23:19:24.000Z
- Updated: 2026-08-19T23:19:24.000Z
- Author: M. R. Framboise
- Tags: Runinng to the Mountaintop

Before we begin climbing the mountaintop, I’d like you to take a deep breath;— inhale the stale dormitory air with the faint scent of one's unfinished dinner on their desk. At this time in the morning— around 5:45 to 6:00 AM— the light is scarce, but its scarcity makes it no less blinding to the bleary-eyed vessel through which it will attempt to pass. Hear the faint crows' call through your window. They've always been the true early birds. No matter how much effort one puts in to awaking up just past the witching hour, the crows will always awaken first. You will begin to gather yourself and your thoughts. Your muscles will give their first expansions and contractions of the day. Your brain will float through the day's inaugural thoughts, and your eyes will gradually focus on what's in front of you. For a brief moment— on the best of days— there will be the most blissful harmony. The troubles of the previous day have passed into memory, and the struggles yet to be seen are just that. Do sit with this for a moment.

As you begin to stand, feel the blood rush to your feet— feel that light dizziness in your head. Feel your own body wobble as if a wave has just passed through Jell-O. Don’t worry too much though— you will regain your balance as you do every morning. There may exist one thousand names for that dizziness, and all manner of those epithets would fail to capture the genuine nature of the thing. All that you need to do now, however, is regain your balance and move forward. Once you have regained your balance, and you glance around the room, you will see a bit of clutter, a bit of order, a bit of darkness, and a bit of light. You will turn your focus toward a beige box that one might face difficulty in identifying. I will give you the slightest of hints and tell you that it’s a typewriter. Quite the simple electro-mechanical object of a vintage that likely predates every soul in the your building. Even with a glance, you can hear the beeps, buzzes, clicks, and clacks of that machine— of every document from the rigorously corporate to the free and childlike. You hear the machine’s life even before it has been turned on.

As you move forward from your meditation on the typewriter, you find a bottle of water still sealed— surely I intended to drink from it before heading off to sleep, but alas, it is yours now. Take a sip; they say it is good to start of one’s day with a clean drink of water. Moving forward still— through the clutter and the order, through the darkness and the light— you will shower, dress yourself, and move through the calm early-morning world.

After you make your way through the clutter, you’ll take the same route that you’ve likely taken one thousand times and will likely take one thousand more by the end of the year. Bedroom to living room, living room to lobby, lobby to the street, and from the street to the same three-kilometer walk that you take every morning. On your walk, you’ll see those same crows— they’ll flock together and swoop down past you on the most interesting of mornings. And apart from the crows, the morning is rather quiet. Take another deep breath now. The air you’ll breathe in this time has a different texture. It’s fresher; it’s more “pure” in a sense. It’s got a slight warm feeling. When you breathe in now, you’ll taken a good bit of water, too— it’s nice when things are balanced like that. The early-morning New Orleans air doesn’t yet have that rough city texture, nor does it have that back-breaking heat that Louisiana is known for and that we’ve known for damn-near our entire life. At around 6:25-6:30 in the morning, it’s just a faint warmth akin sitting by a nice fire, so enjoy that warmth for a second.

Your phone won’t buzz quite yet— enjoy that too. Once your friends, comrades, partners, and family all awaken, it’ll seem like your phone is always up to something— that something is always going on. At some point on your walk, maybe near the beginning and maybe near the end, you’ll dial a number. It’s probably your grandmother, but not always. Once she answers the phone, the day has really started. Those morning conversations are where your day really starts and where your brain really starts moving. Take in the conversation. Take in the frustration, the joy, the peace, the disagreement, and the calm voice of love— take it all in.

You’ll walk past your friends’ house. You’ll walk past a school, and you’ll cross the number 12 streetcar line that has come to define this neighborhood. If you’re lucky, it might pass you, and you’ll consider, for no longer than half a second, whether or not you want to “cheat” and just ride back to campus. But that thought will fade and you’ll keep walking. Around two-and-a-half kilometers in, you’ll see a church tower— Holy Name of Jesus Church— and that is your sign that the sort of pre-day, pre-“doing stuff” phase of the day is coming to a close. You’ll get back to your building and take the same path that you’ve taken a thousand times and will likely take a thousand more— from the street to the lobby, from the lobby to the living room and from the living room back to the bedroom.

As the final beat of the day’s prologue starts to hit, you’ll sit down at your desk, surrounded by the same cluttered order that has come to feel like home; you’ll turn on your computer, and the day will begin. And now you’re ready to start climbing to the mountaintop.