Lost my damn white earring in the bed. Kate says to retrace my steps. I pulled off the sheets, moved the bed, looked under the dressers. Kate says to retrace my steps further. Drive back to yoga. 

Fucked up dreams. On the Outer Banks, treading water, drowning, having to choose between Kate and Ellie. Also dreamt fleas in the bed—need to put the goo on the cat. Also dreamt we’re in Minnesota and I come home every night to an empty house because Kate is out. Dreams aren’t fucked up. They’re my fears, chalked in white on a blackboard of writhing REM cycle. 

Read Electric Kool Aid Acid Test. Read Ken Kesey on microdosing LSD and then going farm and never looking back. Read Tom Wolfe. 

12:41. Is it important to include the time? 

Monday. I asked my yoga class. Is it April 30th or May 1st? They didn’t know. 

After coming home from yoga and swimming and cycling. I should not have raced that hard, I said to Kate. I turned off her podcast. She said please don’t turn off my podcast. We’ve had this discussion before and we’ve agreed it’s nice to be asked before the entrant just enters and presses pauses on the playing iPhone, turning off the podcast. Sorry, sorry, I said. I should not have raced that hard, I said again. My legs are murdered. Kate spooned rice and egg into the baby’s gullet. I told you, she said. She did, but I didn’t remember. And probably wouldn’t have had the discipline, even if I had remembered. That hunger. That ego to win. Hunger win kill follow hunt stalk prey kill. It’s not just a spring 8 mile race through the woods. 

Marriage is the most important spiritual work. Psychedelics are one thing. Run like a freakazoid train ahhhhh is one thing. But the I-me-my in marriage and the oh oh Other and the friction and the undulating tide of time, these quietly pummel rocks into sand. These melt the me me me. I don’t know what you’re working on but my mom always told me Ryan the world doesn’t revolve around you but I never learned that. I get mad inside when Kate is paying attention to the baby, spooning rice and egg yolk into her mouth, and I’m telling her about how I already retraced my steps and still can’t find the earring. 


Less training is more, someone told me. Cut out the garbage miles, and just go hard a few times a week. But I don’t go that way. I listened to a Joe Rogan podcast about an ultra runner and the ultra runner said “2/a days” and my ears perked up. Like I was just waiting for permission. 

Buy a glass french press. BPA free plastic plunger thing. Kate says try TJ Maxx. 

Is it a failure to stop writing? What does it even mean to fail? To not reach one’s goals? Or is failure no longer trying? I asked Webster’s Dictionary. One says the lack of success. Another entry says not meeting expectations. Another says no longer functioning. 

My friend Bradley says failure is a bullshit disease ridden word that doesn’t exist if you’re sufficiently optimistic and bolted to ballistic self belief. 

While I’m wavering waffling wiggling back and forth, like a worm on a hook, I agree.