Efforts continue to free myself from the self-inflicted / half-a-lifetime prison of timers and timeblocks, relics of a former perceived need and identity piñata of inflexibility, and allow myself to work / write / make much as my wife toils in her garden for all hours of the summer day: by default. Make it, working / writing / making, like breath in meditation: it's what I do first thing, what I return to, my inhales, my exhales, one through ten, etc etc (note: I quit meditating long ago and have found that, since I started this process of time-freeing and making doing my work the default activity for the day, I no longer have a little voice telling me to consider meditating again).

Happiest when I spend my time doing things that are actually in my control because, as I've slowly learned, precious little is.

A long ways to go to parole myself from the mental constraints that will, undoubtedly endeavor to fuck me up but, on the best days, the days of assigning guilt for a failure to attain a set number of hours are over, what I do being nothing special – only what I do.