For once in days, I am the first one up, the only one up. I made the coffee. I filled up the big urn that we use on the weekends and I'm waiting for the little red light to kick on so that I might fill up a large mug. I ate generic Oreos with blue icing (Spring!) for breakfast. I restarted the dryer. I turned off some lights that had been left on all night. I didn't want to do it, but I smoked. It made me dizzy.

This morning, before I got out of bed, I tried talking to God. I tried to rename it. I tried to see it as a woman. Draped like Lady Buddha, I guess. I tried to recognize all of the buzzing cells in my arms and legs, toes and fingers. It didn't work so well. I needed a true breeze on my face. I needed to hear the birds over the fan. I needed to convince myself that I was comfortable.

Now, I've read a little. I felt inspired for a minute. I had an idea . . . What if I took my memoirs - my creative nonfiction - and twisted them? added to them? changed them here and there as I see fit? as I wish? I have had this sinking feeling that I'm neglecting my imagination, attempting to capture all of these half-truths in what might've really happened, in what I half-remember. I should perhaps just shake the term "nonfiction." I want to paint.

In the Summer Institute, this invitational course filled with smiling teachers around one long stretching table, we've been asked repeatedly to write about our childhood. I'm burnt out on it. It doesn't interest me much anymore. I feel like I've already scraped the bottoms of all memories worth scratching around about. This weekend - for the 4th - we'll be traveling south to camp and hopefully catch another crash-up derby - at best, a trip to a local bar.

This morning, I am attempting to talk myself into talking a walk. I'll have lots to do when and if I return.