There are days of just drinking oceans—between waves of whiskey and spit, among the creature skeletons and barnacle kiss; there are days of just guzzling, and the hiccup in your standard, the lazy in some lies to me. It isn’t anything really. That in which we get caught up in—has nothing to do with us. That in which we get caught up in—better than more than better for: just leave it. Be your own fierce distraction. Make the mind held a destination and learn to understand it. Pace your worry to want. Want it more than the holding back. Lean into the fucking wind. False positives owe you nothing, get on with it. Get over it. Just get over it. It isn’t worth the dwell or the time, the ache or the pacing. There is so much more and always will be no matter what it is we’re doing—whether it is walking like rockstars under an inkpot sky, or squashed on the bus between big men and unsatisfied house wives. Things will always be too much; be thankful. If things were too little what would we do with the space? What of space? This too dealt with in clutter and monologues. No more fucking monologues. Get on with it, get over it. Say what you have to say, describe it how your eyes grip it.  There is more to the many, like stair steps in handshakes.  Nobody ever told you to give up what you hope for; you just assumed.

Last night it was edamame, sushi, and working until 10:30. C’est la freaking vie. Katie and I entertained Joe(who forgot his wings) with videos on the internet, including break dancers and funny cats. There is nothing like a funny cat. We could not, however, successfully find a video of cats in lab coats.

One more day. One. More. Day. I move tomorrow. I don’t like moving, and this is a solo venture which will require all muscles isolated and otherwise. This will be executed on pure adrenaline, as food still doesn’t interest me too much and sleep is hyphenated by much tossing, turning, and waking up to play hide-n-seek with breath. I am rounding the corner to a good place though. All I can do is press forward.

I’m going home for christmas, which I’m all kinds of excited about as it is Maddie’s first christmas and I haven’t been with my family for that particular holiday in years. Hearing my dad and sister’s excitement about my impending visit just makes it even better. I love that my sister is on an indoor soccer team and that my dad still wants to come and sit in the stands, even though Summer is 29 and very capable on the field without my father yelling at her to hustle more. It’s something that he’s done, does, will always do. His encouragement knows no boundaries, and I adore it.

There are creative projects hovering all around my head, in different stages of progress. My brain won’t stop. I told Renee about my commitment to finish and publish my work, and how I told myself that once it is done I can die–it’s a self-trick really, because I know once that book is in my hands I’ll just want more and more and more. The things we tell ourselves.

Work just about broke me yesterday. I’ve been leaning on that for some kind of forged focus–I’m so busy there that it’s the easiest thing in the world to get swallowed up by it. But you can’t put it all into one frame of the film, I know this. The holidays will provide a good break. After christmas I come back to Pittsburgh for a few days before heading back out, to New York City. No words are born or existing to describe my anticipation.