I’m still getting used to New Sleep, in which you never quite sleep, but are always listening for the sound of your baby crying, or moving, or thinking, or anything-ing. You float above sleep, but maybe dip a foot or hand into the deep part, now and then. Last night I had managed to slip into something, but then woke up SCREAMING AND WAILING at the tail end of a 4.5 earthquake, which is moderate, but if it pulls you from sleep, it can feel like the end of the world. We’ve somehow conveniently been out of town for the last two of this size. Morrison, on his Blessing, was sleeping with Joe in the other room, and I woke up knowing I was away from them. I woke up with this wail / growl in my throat that I’ve never heard come from my mouth before, a Mother sound. I woke inside of so many untethered feelings: a fear of the Big One and and open pit of the future and the planet and mortgage payments, and the feeling of pulling Joe’s tiny hands through the tiny sleeves of his shirt. Morrison rushed in, assuming I was on fire, and I stumbled towards Joe, wondering exactly when we should move to North Carolina or another planet and how much we could get for our house. By the time I’d finally settled my heart, I heard the scream, again: Joe, two hours later, in my face, wanting food. Is it all ONE SCREAM? What is this world / feed me / I love you / don’t leave me / do you promise to never, ever go?