I live an almost completely external life. There aren’t any quiet moments of contemplation, though there are brief flashes of immediately forgotten epiphany. Between left and right turns, in the 15 minute drives to work, and from work to preschool. Nothing important enough to pull over to write down. Occasionally I come up with a song whilst driving alone.

The real re-visitation of my internal self happens when painting or drawing or reading. And I suppose, here with you, writing. I am speaking in my head and here is the proof.

I felt like shit last week and was totally burnt out on everything, so stayed home to recuperate. Magically I had a book that was about 1/2 finished. I lay around all morning, from about 8:15 a.m. until 12:30 p.m. reading. Reading and reading and reading. My dear friend Damon got me this book for Christmas/Birthday/holiday season this past winter. Cruddy. WOW. It is finished! I could never have done that with anyone home.

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