Great winds rocking the little Aladdin caravan all night long. I left the fiberglass awning up to fend for itself, unwilling to go fiddle with it in the dark and cold wind of aftermidnight. Caught in the gale, it filled the cabin with a groaning and creaking that wasn't unpleasant, and wasn't the reason I didn't sleep. That I can blame on a sugar binge yesterday midafternoon and then icecream dessert too late in the evening. Shameful. But blissful as any narcotic. (Careful, though, careful ... )

Slept late in the morning, then fed the crew, fetched in the mail (package - a browned and marked-up used paperback on "the lives & literature of the Beat generation"). Back in Sylvia's warm officebed I consumed my own oatmeal&blueberries and mug of coffee, swallowed my magic thyroid pill, and spread around me the day's books and notebooks. (Interruption: a quick online foray to order refills for my Energel pens ... )

Conventional modes of composition had forced the writer to ignore much of what he really thought. Lifting the censorship of the conscious self, Kerouac opened the door to the unconscious, by all accounts the mind's richest storehouse.

That's the storehouse I want to access. It's the core reason for all the isolations of my days. And now that I'm recovering finally from a decades-long decline and enfeeblement, now that I am (ironically) revitalized in this my 60th year, I may again participate in the common realities of the consensus world, take them in and set them down transformed. Time to allow some life in. Refill, refill.