It's Friday and my eyes are open.

This is the first of the day. The legal pad ramblings do not count for much.

Tremble like a leaf
What used to be forty proof
is now a latte

Xander knows what a latte is. One day he'll know what a forty proof something is, and everything we've taught him will be questioned. Maybe. He might be a teetotalling hiker snowboarder who gets enough kicks in the mountains and streams. I hope we're able to teach him that as well.

So much on this big blue ball of rock and liquid holds so much fascination for me. The only way to tame it, to ask all of the art and music and birch trees to take a number is to write.

I can be everything I've dreamed when I write. I've been Icelandic. I've been a child again.

I've been another sex all together (which ruffles feathers in places that rarely get ruffled during the waterboard stretch from 8 to 5). Thom Yorke holds magic in his eye. I want to touch it.

I'm slurring my words and I haven't drank in almost nine years.

And I know I've mentioned that he's really funny. He's also quite moody like his father, and he also cracks some good wise just like his mama. He's my mad haired Little Prince and I wish I could see the star that he flew down from.