Tonight, after

a day of the passport episode, I’m on the couch with a different communication with self, over decaf and chocolate chip cookies, I think about selling.  Everything.  And, selling my writing, everything from the Mon Petit Mise release, to my newsletter— every moment is a piece to sell.  This, the piece, peace, I have here in the living room—  eat rest of cookie, look for coffee, where, left, on ground, forgot.. tired from day, from all those bracelet brandishers.  I didn’t wake at 4 this morning, obviously, after all the Lancaster.  Why I’m sipping decaf, pilfering my wife’s and son’s cookies.  I want to rise at 3, if I can, and stay awake—  the deprivation of self will be the benefactor that will send me to alternate Zen, a sort of agenda’d meditation that I can’t control, if that makes sense.  It doesn’t. That’s cool.—  Biting into this chocolate-chip cookie, I notice where I’m magnetized, convince in and about and with its presence; texture, flavor, tremor, I keep moving my mouth for more reflect of that chocolate, those chips— my writing and actions have to be the same.. decaf, where are you?  I remember seeing Dad playing solitaire at the Bayview house, sipping decaf.  I know he was doing more than simply playing a fucking card game.  He was meditating, he was measuring, projecting and selecting his actions next.

I’m thinking the adjunct game has got to go.  from a business perspective, it’s asinine.  My fantasy: paying for my kids’ college.  They don’t have to worry about student debt enslavement.  Like me.  Mom and Dad always had my back.  All my debt is MINE.  I want it to be the same for my babies.

I need sleep, I know, and I hope it’s hard. I hope I wake at fucking 2, and can’t sleep, go to passport day 2 with a dazed consciousness and sell more than I did today.  I have the coffee, real coffee, cued.