Cookies and Cream

Here's what's so great about being grown up. I wanted ice cream at 1 AM last night, and so I had ice cream at 1 AM. I didn't have to ask permission, or sneak upstairs to my parents' freezer. I wanted ice cream, and lo, there was ice cream.

Such things astound me, and remind me why I was so eager to grow up as a platinum-haired young Jedi. When I held the Taufling in my arms just a few days ago, I rocked him and loved him and thought oh, little baby, childhood takes so very long.

Today the morning sun touches the handpainted sides of my desk, and I ponder the question of how to spend the day. It is a matter of direction. If I drive an hour to east, I will enter the quiet familiarity of the beach; if I drive an hour west, the day will be conducted at the track.

I will consult with no one or nothing but my own gut on this matter. At the moment I am leaning beach, called there by a need to sit and write and inhale the art of being. The track is a blur, constant motion, a constant circuit of paddock, rail, winners circle, speed and adrenaline and cigarettes and not meeting the eyes of the jockeys, and although the meet there will end in just a few days I feel myself saturated with horseracing, feel it enmeshed in my grey matter and every inch of skin. It is infatuation to the point of pain, and I almost need to back away for a moment and catch my breath, recenter. I will spend the day in another type of sand, park myself there all day with a towel and an umbrella and maybe some wine.

It's 10 AM, and I am craving Skyline chili. Yeah, time for lunch.