I'm tipsy. It's 10:30 at night. I'm listening to the radio and Lily is sitting on my lap. The doors are open to the deck and the air is cool. The candles on the coffee table are lit and dwindling, next to an empty bottle of wine.
My friend George came over tonight. He's Southern and a writer and we met through 826 over a year ago. He's got a story in the Santa Monica Review and an interview in The Believer this month. I'm so proud and so happy for him. We talked about books and writing and David Gordon Green and New York and Silverlake and getting older and we ate Abbot's pizza and drank wine and it was nice.
I worked on a paper all day. I'm in the midst of mid-terms and spent my afternoon comparing and contrasting Freud & Jung, writing process notes, and attending supervision. I saw my favorite client tonight and we had a typical session. She cried in the last moments, unable to let herself become that vulnerable when there are endless minutes yet to sit through.
I've got work all day tomorrow and then class until 10pm. Same goes for Wednesday. I've got to get up early tomorrow to vote before I go to work. I vote in the lifeguard station on the beach. I can't imagine anything more California than that.
I have lots to say, to write about, but not enough time. School, clients, work. I'm here though. Somewhere.
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