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So I almost have everything prepared for the event this weekend, the LA Times Festival of Books. They’re expecting a crowd that could swell to 150,000 people, a small city built out of books, tents, coffee, and conversation. It’s the kind of place where stories don’t just sit quietly on tables, they hum in the air like electricity. I’ve been going down my checklist like a pilot before takeoff. Books? Packed. Booth? Paid. Credit card reader? Finally getting its moment to shine. Transportation is mostly handled, minus that one loose thread getting to the hotel for a night, but compared...

Today felt like stepping into a softer room inside my own mind. I had therapy this morning, and we talked about energy levels. Not the kind you measure with a stopwatch or a Fitbit, but the kind that hums underneath everything. The kind that makes a day feel like a sprint… or a slow walk through fog. For a long time, I’ve lived in a place called hypomania. Not quite the fireworks of full mania, but definitely above sea level. A steady buzz. A creative current. A kind of internal jazz music playing whether I asked for it or not....

This morning didn’t begin with an alarm clock. It began with a small, determined creature named Whiskey Kitty, who decided my face was public property. Purring, pawing, and administering what I can only describe as a full-contact affection campaign, she made sure I understood one thing clearly: I was loved, whether I was ready for it or not. Somewhere in the middle of that feline love storm, I heard dishes fall downstairs. Now that sound carries weight. It’s not just noise, it’s a question mark. At my age, with everything going on, my mind doesn’t whisper possibilities, it shouts them....

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...

I woke up late today, dragged out of sleep by dreams that felt less like dreams and more like unpaid invoices from my subconscious. The LA Times Festival of Books is coming up next weekend, and apparently my brain has decided to rehearse disaster like it’s opening night on Broadway. In the dream, I’m at my booth, smiling, making sales, doing everything right. People are tapping their cards, the little machine is blinking like a tiny robot with trust issues… and then nothing. Transactions vanish into thin air. Money disappears like socks in a laundromat. I’m standing there, surrounded by...