Back in the chair, Oliver laying close to me, which he rarely does when I come up here to work.  Nurse still in her ward, for another 90 minutes or so she tells me.

Inventory, now the practice.  All writings have to be put out as a generator.  Listening to 80s tracks which I rarely do.  Started with Bryan Adams’ “Run To You”.  My thoughts are Kerouac-ian.  As they have and haven’t before been.

No journal entry today in the EVERYDAY.  Gratitude… the G in STRENGTH.

Playing with the acronym all day as more than that, more than a play, but a new thesis.  Hemingway-like, more MADIGAN.  I know art I’m typing.  If you’re lost, sorry.  

Peace engulfs the writer, thinking of his bride…. Working from la maison on the morrow, happy about that.  Relieved.  Need one of those days where I’m working but more so drawing out the next week at my pace.

A writer’s pace.

5:28 PM = Peaceful, writing, and journaling then not.  Sitting to SELF, quiet and collective.  Loving the Now, here, Oliver asleep on the floor.  Just messaged the Nurse and said that he’s the worst executive assistant ever.

Joke, of course.  But that’s where I wanted my mood and thoughts to go.  Less, and building from singular conceptual edifices.  Music, LoFi.  Nodding head, like I’m on a beach with the Nurse.  Maybe Cancun.

She mentioned a trip recently to the Central Coast.  Hmmmm…. Like, where?  Hearst Castle, that area?  Or, Monterey?  Carmel?  Have always wanted a home or even a small fucking shack k in Carmel, or Monterey.

Dreaming, and looking at real estate, and manifesting through the content I put out.  No hoping or searching… this current moment is enough.  And an hour from now, especially as a diarist, a journal-jumper.