8:15pm, and I see more.  New conversations are one thing, but conversations that have been on page for years and have taken different forms and directions I didn’t forecast… here I am.  Grateful for the night, for her words and time.

Seeing more, feeling more, I’m more me than I’ve been in months, maybe years.  So here I am.  Music here in the kitchen, thinking of the kids and how they take to certain tracks I play in the car.  Even little Henry bobs his head to Jim Morrison’s L.A. Woman…

Happiness definition, new definition here with me.  A book….  another.  Thinking.  Looking at new restaurants in Windsor— Almost forgot about Mill Valley tomorrow.  More developing in the story than I know how to catalog and log, inventory.

Music in all veins and capillaries…. From today in the office to dinner just a bit ago….  Message from new conversation, late but I don’t mind.  Mind everywhere, not wanting to start a new paragraph.  Keep everything singular, one composition, no matter the emotional curvature.  Book done, I know it is, I just have to build it.  570 pages of prose this year, in this Pages doc.

No wine yet, what am I opening… For some reason feel like Zin.  Why.  I’m changing.  I notice the characters around me change just as musicians change, as Coltrane did, Morrison, Joplin, Shakur.  Need quiet… writing late.  Everything starts from tonight, from dinner, from my words with her.  Not a healing, but a honing of consciousness, of conviction, knowing the Now.

After life, demand bullion from it.  Everything, in being About EVERYTHING.  Music…. Sentimental Mood, like Mr. Coltrane.

Taryn messages me, I ignore her.  Not from malice, but focus. On tonight, dinner, Now.