On floor like I many times am, just breathing, meditating after the day so far.  Morning with both babies, which was nowhere near as tough as I thought it’d be, now I collect.  Again can’t remember what I thought about on run, but I thought, I inhaled while running through the blocks of that Coffey vineyard, running up Hopper then down Industrial as the heat started to get to me.  I remember thinking about Jack/little Kerouc and Emma/Ms. Austen, how the time together went so fast–  why was I so nervous about it, that kind of streaming.  

Would love a beer right now, won’t lie.  Just sit out on the patio, and listen to the neighbors’ chimes, the trees between our house and the other neighbors’ wishing and whooshing, swaying and fraying, and just sip.  Anymore, such sounds are a fetish, gratifying– while some crave the next high, or party, or bender, or drinking spree, I only really plead the universe for quiet.  For words.  And maybe a glass of wine.  Or a beer.  A book.

The wind is rather insistent today.  More energy than I have, after that run.  I need to stay awake, need to write tonight and wake early tomorrow, or early enough like this morning so I can gather pages to sell.  Thinking about going back to the beginning, my first blog, and the inaugural entries of this log.  I need pages to sell, and as I’ve been thinking he last few days I need to be as much a publisher as I am a writer.  That’s the urgency and priority, the FIRE, I’ve been missing.

Looking at pictures, one each, of the mini-Madigans…  I have to act quicker, with everything.  They’re growing, I’m aging, Time’s winning.