NO, that’s the curriculum for the day.  Less social, much less.

Just writing and organizing thoughts for the book, mindful actuation, where I am and whatever I’m doing.  Overthinking, that’s my common brand but not now.

Writing in Vacaville and a whole day to self but unsure of what to do, knowing there’s work.  But it’s Saturday I say to myself, so fuck that.

Travel.  All I want.  May go for a drive, a poor man’s travel, later today to take pictures of the farmland just north of Vacaville proper.  I look at Paris, where we’re planning to go for our honeymoon, or one of the destinations, and then Italy.

North or South, I ask myself.  Start N, then go S?  No idea.  Just surfing travel options and looking at pictures more picture grazing and gazing than anything strategic.

9:44 AM

I watch the Nurse, get ready.  I can feel her excitement and joy in the day from here, the settee couch by our bed, where I type if I’m not on the floor next to the bath area.  How did I find her?  How can I anymore doubt or be skeptical about something beyond us, Earth, this life?  Not so much say a god type of thing, but, just, something else.  Beyond.

I hope ‘it’ knows I’m grateful, humbled, and wildly, MADLY, loving all scenes and conversations with her.  Sends me away to New York, writing… talking to myself and putting it on page.  People buying my book, buying tickets to see/hear this writer share ideas.  Why New York…

Why not.  Never been, always wanted to go.  Writer go and live and travel, do touch-and-goes there.  It’s a literary capital, isn’t it?’

So there you go, I have to fucking go.  Soon.  Break regularity’s regulation of this writer’s pages.