The Morning Boat

Weekend. Taking the Waxholm boat out to the island. Continuing to write the novel. Two literary agents have liked the premise, but the characters don't make them feel enough. I understand them. I don't feel much either. I bite my lip at the thought that they’ve read it. But I think I have found a way forward.

The days on the island go by quickly. Uninspired when I have to take the morning boat back into town.

Four older men and I on the upper deck. Hoarse voices. Stiff jackets and shirt collars. They share world news and price hikes. And beer brought from home in coffee cups.

I meet new people. Both in my consulting work and at the hotel where I'm staying. Explain who I am and where I come from. It sounds like a pitch. Too curated. I steer the story toward the less flattering side, but regret it afterward.

Getting a server. Installing OpenClaw. Not to work with it yet. More to understand where it's headed. Until the light goes on.

A friend writes that someone he knows has automated almost their entire machine shop business. I don't know if I believe it.

Working out at SATS. Looks like Fredrik Reinfeldt with a PT next to him. No security guards. Both look happy, as if they’ve landed in something good.

Not everyone is doing well. In the sauna, someone says the man over by the showers has been standing there all day.

“As long as he moves,” someone says.

I check on him. Then I leave.

Starting to feel pollen in my eyes. Never felt it before. Enough people have said I should be affected. Now I am.

Dinner in Bromma. It's been a while since I drank alcohol. Pollen and alcohol make the dining room blurry. I feel like I'm wearing a costume with a mustache.

Talking to a former mentor and friend. He hasn't drunk alcohol in two years. More and more people seem to have quit completely. Too big of a deviation once you've started measuring everything.

I’m getting OpenClaw before I get an Oura ring. I don't want to see metrics about bad sleep. I want someone to give me eight hours.