This morning didn’t arrive with trumpets or discipline. It came quietly, like a cat stepping across your chest at sunrise. I woke up, poured my tea, and without ceremony or excuse, smoked a couple of snipes from the ashtray while tending to Whiskey Kitty. Not proud, not hiding. Just… honest.
And that’s where things have changed.
It’s not a scoreboard anymore. Not a gold star chart. Not something I announce to the world for applause or correction. People get tired of that. Maybe I do too. Because this isn’t about accountability in the way we usually dress it up, with check-ins and confessions and someone keeping tally like a referee in a boxing match.
This is about integrity.
The quiet kind. The kind that sits with you when no one’s watching, no one’s judging, and no one’s handing out medals or warnings. Just you, your habits, your choices, and that small but stubborn voice that says, you know what you really want.
And I do.
I don’t want to smoke.
Not for the LA Times Festival of Books. Not for my health. Not for my work. Not for the version of myself I’m trying to grow into, piece by piece, like one of my paintings that only makes sense after enough layers have been laid down. Right now, maybe it looks messy. Maybe it looks unfinished. But I know what it’s becoming.
The book fair is creeping closer, tapping me on the shoulder like an impatient stage manager. There are still things to prepare, details floating around like loose papers in the wind. But I’ve done a lot already. More than I give myself credit for. And I know something about myself from doing these events…
When the moment actually comes, the anxiety dissolves.
It always does.
The noise fades, the worry takes a backseat, and what’s left is this strange, calm, almost dreamlike focus. Like stepping into a painting and realizing you’re not the artist anymore… you’re part of the scene. Talking to people. Sharing stories. Selling books. Being present.
That’s where I want to be. Not outside with a cigarette, watching life happen like it’s a show I didn’t buy a ticket for.
And then there’s Whiskey Kitty.
She doesn’t care about any of this philosophy. Not about integrity, not about addiction models, not about book fairs or moving plans. She lives in a world of pounce, chase, nap, repeat. A tiny striped philosopher who believes the meaning of life is hidden somewhere inside a crumpled piece of paper.
But I think about her.
If I move out… do I take her with me?
This house is a kingdom. Staircases to sprint up, rooms to vanish into, corners full of invisible enemies only she can see. A studio apartment would be… smaller. Contained. A different kind of world.
Would that be fair to her?
Or is home less about square footage and more about who’s there when she wakes up? Who she plays with, who feeds her, who she decides to bless with those early morning ear-licks that feel like sandpaper dipped in affection?
I don’t know yet.
But she doesn’t seem worried. Not even a little. This morning she was back at it, bouncing, pouncing, dragging me out of my head and into the moment like a furry little Zen master. No past regrets. No future fears. Just now.
And maybe that’s the lesson tucked inside all of this.
Not perfection. Not performance. Not even progress in a straight line.
Just showing up.
Being honest.
Trying again.
I still got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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