“Mike, can you get Emma’s brush?” Melissa calls from upstairs.  I say I will as the craziness is not so funny anymore.  These are obvious covid quarantine symptoms.  They’re going mad.  Jack asks for assistance brushing his teeth for some reason so I arrive in his bathroom to do just that and am ordered away.  Okay.

Back at the table here and turning up the chill music pouring slowly from the phone.  People ask or could ask why I have three music subscriptions.  This is why.  Pandora, Spotify, Apple Music… best investment EVER.  The more chill and lounge-y, relaxing tracks I can collect and shoot into my ears like a generous musket the better.

They run around upstairs and play some notes on Jack’s electric piano at a volume that offends the track playing from phone.  Turn it up louder, I do, then they stop playing.  I’m going mad.  In a good way.  Wanting to write this entire however many months of covid reality and the more recent weeks of having the kids doing school in home with us and now on vacation with nothing adequate to distract them.  Again I think if I were ever locked up, I’d write for my life.  What I’m doing now.  But still, I find their madness and utter no-care contour brilliant and educating.  Approach EVERYTHING like that, noted.

Still sipping caffeine.  Why not.  Stay alive in this cell.  Covid, the author, but writing under its paginated nose.  Sipping espresso, and not working.  Not prospecting, and sure as shit not calling.

“Mike, can you brush Emma’s teeth please?”

I fly up the stairs to see my little girl, mid-attack on her bigger brother while he’s on the ground.  She growls at him, I laugh a little and try to tell her with some straightness of face to halt her assault.  Have to pull her away.  She escapes my grip, runs into her room and out of vision.  Great, I think.. here we go.  But, she waits in the bathroom on her little stool, waiting for my action.

The madness morphs into a rhythm, new, delighting and texturally philosophical.