Back in office.  Nice Father’s Day with the exception of the morning where

Jack and Emma were at it and Jack accidentally hit Emmie on the forehead with his bat at a park here in Windsor while I was feeding Henry in back of the Rav.  Don’t want to get more into it ‘cause I don’t want to spend the night writing about it.  Not even a minute of this night to self.  At desk, glass of SB, quiet like this morning.  In fact more still and zenful.

Mom’s dinner, ham and those mashed potatoes she does that are mashed but not, soft roles, peas, and something else I’m forgetting now.  Dad and I meeting over some ideas, and I smile just thinking about his voice and words.  Like I said this morning, I seek to like him be, in a number of regards, voluminously.

Sending letter tomorrow, I’m doing it.  Thought while driving from Melissa’s house dropping off kids to here that maybe I shouldn’t, maybe I should see if I can somehow pull it off.  Valid approach and concept, even pursuit if I wanted to so do, but no.  I need a change now.  So, waking early and proofing the letter one more time. Next story… what department though, not sure.  Couple ideas, but nothing solid or decided.

Sticking with my social media break and “detox” if you could call it that.  Just want to.  And it’s the humans, I need a break from them.

Coltrane tonight.  No Netflix or TV, another aim of mine for day and possibly into week.  Haven’t sipped the wine yet.  Waiting….  Thinking of Dad again and his words and how committed to the office he is, arranging money and investments.  New chapter for me, new crazy, ways, play with my words and sentences and inward discussion.

Just thinking about a blog idea I had, yesterday or the day before.  Around photog and photojournalism…. Not like reporting, so maybe I shouldn’t say journalism, but journaling… words and quick shots, in the moment unpolished pics.  Deep pull of the wine, she hasn’t spoken with me like that in possibly months.  My winery, photograph everything alone the way.  From the first notebook where I write ideas, to me on my first pouring at some dinner in SF.  Pouring and telling stories of the kids and their schooling and how they’ve schooled and instructed me on life and what to do when certain angles and intersections find you.

No exhaustion about me, only Composition.  9:15.  When certain people show their true makeup and inner-manuscript and intent, nothing you can do.  I see that now.  The poetry of the inarguable is “beautiful” as Dad says concerning some thing.  I keep going.  Not slowed, not discouraged or hurt, or sad, or even perplexed.  It doesn’t register.  None of it does.  A devil will be a devil, so some slouchy pigeon-liver can have that devil.

Relieved.  Revived.  Re-written.  Mode survival.  Too much to lose, too much money to make, and far too much to do for my kids.  En avant…