journal kind of


In office with Henry.  Three months old today.  Time reminded me of its mind to move and not concern itself with our concerns.  Still feeling yesterday’s 6.48 miles, slow this morning.  Nothing to do with the wine last night in fact I didn’t have that much.  Bought two new bottles to write about from Bottle Barn in its shelter-in-place rush and stopped sipping early.  Wanted to write and gather, go to bed early so I could do something different with this Saturday as I spoke early into phone – one of those dictation tools, or notes.

He’s content playing in his little rocker, now able to reach the tiger and monkey with loops, occasionally.  He also stares at the tree.  Wonder what he’s thinking.  And what am I thinking… what do I want going into ’21.  Easy.  Ease…. peace.

Still looking at houses, for family and my writing hut, or comp cove as I now call it.  Want it in Marin, maybe.  No… too close.  It needs to be somewhere I escape and am far from people in family, those loved, friends or other..   A book every visit, or something finished.  Maybe a new blog, or article for the New Yorker, or Vanity Fair…

I get an idea.  Don’t write a thing.  Just keep it.  Hidden.  Write it head.  Actually no, don’t even do that.  I know what it is and try to leave it, separate from it.  See if it’ll chase me, haunt me, make me write it.

9:24 Henry gets a little annoyed with me working and not on the ground playing with him or doing any of my funny voices like I do, or the faces that mimic his or that I know will make him laugh.  His protest intensifies slightly but is much more consistent.