The old writer wakes up feeling stupid and sorry.  Ill-equipped with logic, as he must be, to write.  Depart from me, Oh, Lord, for I am a stupid and sinful man, who knows not what he's doing, on top of that.  A worker, at least.  Good at something, but not quite sure what, even as he does it.

And yet, Lord, I am willing to try, even as hopeless and as unprofitable as this fishing today might be.  I have a new friend, besides.  She has your light about her, gets me out of the house.

Well, be thankful for a day off.  You'll be back to work tomorrow night, Saturday, and in the meantime you can take care of your body some.  Take the old dog out for a walk.   Ease this mood of chagrin, the sense that you've lived the wrong way for so long, obsessing about old and stupid things, curiosity that will never be rewarded...

Moroccan spearmint green tea, and also a fresh attempt at a bowl of Matcha, yes, should have got the bamboo whisk in the little tea ceremony kit...  Hot water with lime, a dash of Malden salt. turmeric.  Maybe a coffee over ice.  Maybe I need the hand on the pen upon the old notebook, to draw a list to catch remembering what a few things I might need.   Speed on the keypad is good, but supplement it...

We all have a sense of what heroes go through, Lord knows why they go through such things, in order to find their life...  That's how it seems.

Write out a shopping list, winnow down the thoughts passing through, to find a way into the day.  Actually, the coffee helps, dark vomity liquid that it might be.

You get through to mom on her landline in her kitchen, to offer the reassurance we all might need, what might happen today, Barbara is coming, to make sure there's enough wine in the house, groceries, a little cleaning up...  I remind her she has some Canale's wings and chicken parmesan in the fridge.  Cat food.  Winter is coming.  56 this morning, up there.