too early or too late

I can never figure out which it is. Sleep is a sacrament sometimes. Time is leafing out like the trees, invisible in the dark, but always there. I am here trying to stay in the now, the holy present, not in past of regret, or the future of plans and dreams. Now, cold feet, slight ache in the lower back, but here in the quiet, only the rush of silence through my ears.

I read all day like a kid, sprawled out on my bed, sometimes rolled in the covers, but breathless and unmovable. The book, The Keep by Jennifer Egan, was compelling, riveting, frustrating, sometimes terrifying. Now over, I have that comedown feeling of having done some worthless drug and lost a day. What better way to finish up vacation?

Along with the feeling is the ghost of insecurity. Will my book ever be so compelling? Does anyone realize the work to hatch the book that swims in the brain? My friend Sheila, (some friend) is always saying things to me like, since you don't work... Such work, rewarding at times, but at others gut wrenching, terrifying, and stultifyingly detailed. And always with it carries the grenade of self-doubt. So fuck her. She's never had enough courage to be anything but a bully.

So I'll try to be my own best friend. Trying is better than getting to the end of life and being full of regret for not. How better to use the skill set that I own now, mother, friend, lover, ex-pot addict, recovering sattelite.