Not been sleeping well. I don’t know why. Maybe not enough human interaction. Woke up at 3:20. Ran the dog. Brewed the coffee. My stomach was hurting last night. Felt empty and aching. Craving carbs possibly. I don’t know for sure, but that’s what it felt like. I’ve been podcast binging the last few days. Few weeks really. Grains are poorly digested. Studies show. Cause inflammation. And apparently Inflammation is the cancer diabetes devil.
But damn my stomach hurt like more than hunger and I felt like I was craving bread so. Yeast in a bowl. Warm water. Honey. Wait for the bloom. Add whole wheat. Couldn’t wait for longer ferment. Oven to 350. Putz around. Then ahhh. Irish butter gliding down a fresh slice of warm toast. Mmmm. My gut bacteria trumpeting joy. Stomach feels much better. I feel back to balance.
I write every day. Have for a decade. Wrote poems as a kid. Wrote fiction throughout my twenties. Now it’s all true stuff. Weird how that works.
Rarely do I read. Not sure why. Not active body enough. I need to be doing in some way, problem solving. Not necessarily physically moving, but mentally moving, you know? Can’t just sit, stare, and page turn. Hence therefore thats why I haven’t read much. I’ve skimmed some in high school. But haven’t really skimmed since. Deplorable really. So last night I cracked open Slaughterhouse 5. I’ve tried to read it before. I’ve tried to read a lot of books before. But I only give a book like a page or two, you know? And if it doesn’t roll my socks back up, then I’m like meh. Don’t have time for mediocre throat clearing. But Kurt Vonnegut. God damn.
Just brilliant. The book is so… unbaked. Yes like sourdough bread half baked because the cook can’t wait. So many books take themselves too seriously because their authors take themselves too seriously, but KV seems to acknowledge that he can’t remember Dresden even though he wants to write this epic book about Dresden because that’s the most important quote event in his life. Instead of posturing and professor lecturing and or trying to paste together some fake story about once upon a time and make it cinematic, he gives readers the satisfaction of admitting that he KV is fame hungry which is why he’s writing in the first place, and within the first few pages calls himself out as a moral failure and artistic failure, and there’s something so genuine and beautiful in that admission of chaos. And it sets up the rest of the book (I haven’t finished) to be received as something digestible and honest. Ooh rah. I only read twenty or so pages last night, but that’s probably twenty pages more than I read last year. And the year before that. So it goes.
I’ve been thinking about sleeping on the floor. At least while Kate and the baby are gone. Just to see. Caveman style. Closer to the electromagnetic field of the Earth. Flatter surface. Maybe I’ll sleep better. Experiment, you know?
Mmm. That bread is good. That’s what I’m thinking walking in circles in the dim lit kitchen. Chewing. Cat sleeping. Dog sleeping. They’re becoming such good friends. To each other. And to me.
There’s a calendar on the frig. From my sister-in-law and father-in-law who are a tag-team real estate duo. There’s a cheesy inspirational quote in the corner that I’ve always ignored because the font is like some Hallmark TV show leader. But this morning I’m chewing and my stomach feels good so I look closely and the quote says “Trade your expectation for appreciation and the world changes instantly.” And I stop chewing and the lights go on inside my dome and I nod to myself and think woah damn yes and I feel what it’s saying, like tingles on my arms, goosebumps. You know?
I turned the heat up from 62 to 66, but my feet are still cold, fingers still yellow at the tips.
<<<If The Alt Dad Diary galumphs your gut biome, by all means tell Siri to navigate your starship to patreon.com/altdaddiary. Which is the galaxy portal where you can show your appreciation for this fine literary fidgeting. Support, support, support. The universal laws will catapult karma right back to you. But honestly it does mean a lot for a writer to make a living doing what he loves so goddamn much.
P.S. Watched Black Mirror Season 4, Episode 1: USS Callister. No idea what it means, or says, or satirizes. Thoroughly confused.