Notes to self upon waking - mine are always so pragmatic and boring. I dream of the toast and coffee waiting for me, my love of to-do lists and spreadsheets reminiscent of my father, yet I'm protective of the morning silence in a way which he doesn't seem to appreciate it - I get that from my mother. From both of them, father's quickness to rise, steadfastness of routine, keen eye for organization, and mother's poetic embrace of the mood, water plants and letting it all roll on slowly, not speaking until the second cup of coffee. There is mythology here waiting to be written.

I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, gently not violently, constantly checking the clock as though I would be late, from not knowing when I would be leaving and therefore not knowing how much time I would have in the morning, and the need to have this time, to write these words, to lay a proper fundament for the rest of the day. It's not anxiety, but felt like an inability to give in to the nothingness of sleep, a need to hold on to the conscious thoughts, a slightly stressed feeling of fleeting memory, of constantly forgetting something that would have been better to remember.

Among the philosophers and psychoanalysts I am a novice and it feels great. There is so much I do not understand, so much more to assimilate, and I am so thrilled to swim in that shimmering ocean of possibility. I must not become a cynic before the search has begun. In the meantime my work is clear. I have articulated the path as far ahead as I am able to see it and now I must begin walking it - of course I have already begun. Remember to continue re-member, re-minding and re-mending the upholstery upon the seat of consciousness.