June 8.

I left Sol Stein's book in the car. Mary drove me to Panera since my car is in the shop. I meant to have it keep me company- to use it to spur me on. Now a moment of anxiety passes through me- " I can't write. I don't have a thing to say and if I did, it would be written poorly" The really bad thing about this is that I have been looking forward to this moment all week. I had an outline in my head about some things I would write. I had more than one of what I think as a writer's fugue when first the trees melt away, followed by the cars, the road, the steering wheel. I am no longer commuting but communing with the collective unconscious, plugged into some mysterious process that writers can understand. This morning nothing of the storylines, the essays, the beautiful ideas that were going to flow forth in language clear and musical. Nothing, Na da, I am trying my trick of typing, tapping on the keys in hopes that somehow I will dislodge some of that. You would have loved some of that. I think some of that may have been good, worth recording, worth your effort at reading it. Nothing but this flow. This undirected flow that is sped along by my first sips of caffeine. My car in the shop and the day supposed to be oppressively hot and no fugue ideas only this flow. This tap tap tapping on the keyboard no raven to peck at my brain and dislodge a story, a poem, a description so beautiful that if written on paper the tears would wash it away. I have only had a 1/4 cup of coffee but I am fully alert to the sounds of steam flowing into the milk reminding me that I will head to Borders later for a large cup of cap . The coffee grinder is whirring away whir whir whir whir. the classical piano in the background, the voices unintelligible, the dyed blond at her notebook computer, her hair a raging torrent of blond over dark rocks, her fist up to her face, supporting it? tormented by what she reads? from her short sleeve a sausage arm, her blouse barely containing her upper body, but her bare feet seem thin and sexy, she turned and wrote something into her binder, she has a pretty face, fat but pretty, her chin and its chin. My prejudices show, I hate myself temporarily. I don't know this woman, why should I be so harsh, Yea she's fat.--I amend this. She has a pretty profile when you see a quarter of her face-full on I'm afraid it is not that great. It is too bad I am so shallow.

That last description throws me out of that flow. I'll have to try anew. I hear Jamila behind the counter. I know many of the people who work here and they know me by name. I should try describing her voice, her face. It would be a good exercise I think to myself. I am getting no where in my head.Her voice once heard you'd know it. Putting it in words is not that easy. I think about what writers describe as a "her mouth hardened." The thought passes through my head that I am particularly stupid because I don't know what that means. Who do I ask?


There is a man I should easily be able to describe. I should be able to show his half glasses dangling from his too large nose- his hair creeping back from his face as if in horror and the way it has pooled on the back of his neck like one of those funny bicycle helmets worn by Olympic athletes. The hair has also abandoned the top of his head. I can see that despite his efforts to conceal . He should have used more hair spray because 4 or 5 strands have escaped and like fingers point to that bald spot.. There is an intensity about him. He is staring at the paper, looking over his half glasses, his legs doing a nervous dance under the table. I wish there was a way to photograph people without their permission. I would use a tripod, a long lens, a shutter release, full frame, waiting for that moment of expression and light that peers into the soul.

I go into a new flow. I want to invent something. - I have it Rose colored glasses... HMMM someone has done that. Robots to do all the work and let people pursue that which frees their creative self. Oops . I don't have to work today so it is as if I had such a robot. My mind isn't free and can only doodle. I admit doodle writing is kind of fun. Ah I have it. A doodle writer organizer. It would take all my writing- accumulate the good bits, analyze them, find the characters, take my descriptions, apply those descriptions to characters, look for story lines, put the characters in stories, find an agent, sell the story, win the booker prize, become an Oprah pick, pass Nora Roberts on the New York Times best seller list, go on David Letterman , and kick me in the pants so I would write a real story instead of doodling.

Scribble, bibble, bubble trouble. I have become possessed. The caffeine has taken over my brain, I am like the ballet dancer in the red shoes, I can't stop typing. Soon I will breakdown, my fingers in rictus, words bubbling from my mouth as in a grand mal seizure, rolling around the floor I will scare the patrons.

The alarm on my PDA breaks me from the caffeine web. I have to call the trapper. We have caught our 4th ground hog

I am hoping that Border's opens at 9 am since I am going to brave the heat and walk over there. after I finish this 1/2 cup of coffee.