The baby has a high pony. She is wearing blue and white. She has an obsession with cords. Now she is on the bedroom floor playing with the lullaby maker we used when she was very young. She is three days shy of 9 months old. She is making small noises with her mouth. She is lifting the noisemaker up, dropping it down. She throws it to the side, examines the cord, the cover to the batteries. Then she moves on. Then comes back. 

I’m sitting in a green lawn chair between the bedroom and the kitchen. I’m wiped out. Podcasts on 22 hour fasting instead of 16 hour fasting. Teaching English and talking about how to cultivate honesty with your kids. Greens for lunch. Greens for dinner. Talked to Kate about co-sleeping with Ellie until she (the baby) doesn’t want to anymore, and breastfeeding until she (the baby) doesn’t want to anymore. 

America does everything backwards. I should explain this, but you already know. And if you don’t then me writing probably won’t convince you.

Also the kohlrabi from the CSA farm share tastes like cardboard cucumber raw but if you sauté in olive oil and garlic mmmm damn. 

Day 11 no alcohol. Uncommitted period of abstinence. Not because of recent weeks or months of abuse. Gut feeling. Marathon training. Sharpening. 

Are we trying to outrun death? We meaning me. I heard this thing about the Gilgamesh. King looks at body of dead friend. Just sits and look. For days. Until a worm comes out of dead friend’s nose. Are we trying to outrun death. With all these health hacks, I mean. 

I’m looking for collaborators even though I don’t work well with people. What about this. A book that will save you. Like literally after you read the book, you’re saved. The book will be called “This book will save you.” That’s all I have so far. 

Walking to school, I listened to Ray Chronise and Rhonda Patrick. Found My Fitness podcast. Talking about intermittent fasting and thermogenesis. Ray says: “It used to be that we ate to support our activities now we exercise to support our eating.” 

DAMN. 

At 4:11 PM after doing a hard sprint swim workout in the pool I get in the car, turn the key, watch glance the baseball players all sitting on the bench like ducks in a row thinking critical thought about how baseball isn’t a real sport. I blinker turns accelerate and think I’m the only person who’s ever going to give a damn about my writing as much as I give a damn about my writing. 

DAMN. 

I wonder if this is true with everything. Like today I looked on Zillow to see how much land costs in Minnesota. Just land. Apparently 25k can get you something alright in Buffalo, Minnesota. I wonder if nobody else gives a damn about me wanting to buy a farm as much as I give a damn about me wanting to buy a farm. Same with 22 hour fasting. And ultra swimming. There’s so much permission to whatever the fuck you want once you look around and see that nobody cares. 

NOTE TO READER: Been a long while of anti fundraising but special note that this post is brought to you by readers like you. It’s the lush lubricant love of readers funneling currency to my Patreon account that keeps me going. This isn’t true. I write because I’m addicted to it. I’m a damn graphomaniac. But the support feels good. And does help stay head above water. Existentially speaking. And also materially.