I’m still up.  Been up

since before 6.  Well before 06:00.  Wife gone to pick up her mother from airporting bus.  I’m not at a ll interested in sleep.  Mom told me to stop writing, take a break, but I’m in beatnik mode, just writing in some realized decision plate.  But what’s on there, just an appetizer, I think.  I know I know what I think I know.  Port, after wine, and then some water, then some sleep, then go check on Jack and little Ms. Austen.  My madness is rooted in that Master’s Thesis I wrote in ’04… the one I rushed.  They passed me?  Guess so.  I’m here, a teacher at the JC, right?  This morning’s lecture and the meetings I had with the students purposed me more, and I drive toward the completion of a book, I hope.

More work tomorrow.  Another fucking winery.  Yes… that’s what the Master’s Degree got me.  I’m leaning back into the couch, and I think it’s the day and I think it’s the lifting of those case boxes with Rebekah… is that how you spell her name?  She’s more qualified than I.  Me, just one who loves to write and share everything and for what—  I feel old.  I’m going to be 30-fucking-8.  IS that right?  My babies are reading this years later thinking “My dad thought too much.” Sorry, babies…. But, know my little babies…. I kept at what I loved.  And you should, too.