My workday is almost over, some are longer than others. Today was an other. I haven’t run in the garage yet, I’ll do that after work. The weather’s been gracious, a chill with bright sun. I think that’s my favorite. I’m drinking Diet Coke because for some reason it helps me think. I’d eat grapes, too, if I had some, grapes help me think too.

Everyone is happy on days like this, aren’t they? Or maybe they’re not but they at least feel pressure to fake it. It’s a good week to be short. And I don’t mean in height or rude speech but am referring to length of week, you knew that.

My car has become dirty, both outside and in, and rather than clean it I think I’d like a new one, a new car. A new shiny car that’s already clean, that’s what I want, but I can’t think of what kind so if you do please tell me.

I’ve received three gifts since Friday — well, aside from health, family and friends, and all that. I’ve received three of the sort of gifts people pay money for and sometimes wrap. On Friday I was given a rooster and a furry hat with flaps that cover my ears. I wore it yesterday when my throat felt bad and it was warm enough and furry enough to fix everything. On Sunday I was given a sweatshirt and I’m wearing it now. Not a floppy puffed-up baggy sweatshirt, this one is streamlined, it’s sleek. It has a zipper up the front and a swooshy yellow shape that represents the Goddess of Victory, and the overall color is navy blue.

Tonight I’m making linguine, you’re welcome to have some if you stop by. Take Five is playing, I like to hear it. Some very stern. grim-faced women are walking up the street. So now I’ll go.

Nothing means anything today. Yesterday I read and though I didn’t see a movie I did get creative again. So don’t worry about my block, it’s gone, you completely overreacted, I knew you would.

I’m working briefly today because Jr. is giving a speech and G. is singing a song and it’s happening at lunch and she needs shoes because there’s a dress, I’m doing that now. Someone is very funny and so I’ve been laughing, it doesn’t usually hurt to laugh, unless you’re eating and then you could choke. Because of that I’ve stopped eating and so all of the laughs are safe. I’m eating breakfast, though, tomorrow with L. I hope she’s not funny, I’d like to eat breakfast without a lot of angst.

There’s a book I want to read, it’s called Victorine. If you get it before I do, please drop it by, you can forgo the soup.

You might as well know it, I’m stuck. Yes, I’ve turned in the Crane Fly thing, and an editor is reading it. It’s not quite ready for showtime but I’m told it’s lovely and impeccably close. And there’s another book and another they are all on each other’s heels … except there’s that problem I’m having, it’s that I’m stuck.

There was a time, let’s say it was days ago, it was actually probably many years, but there was a time when I was so confident and assured that I didn’t think there was one possible way I could get stuck. I’d been blessed with infinite words, I thought, and infinite ways of arranging them. Then there was a time after that, I don’t remember when, that I’d get slightly stuck but wouldn’t mention it. I never would ever have said anything to you, and you wouldn’t have suspected anything because these times were short and spaced far apart. Then after that there leaner times. I’d get stuck for days and think writing was dumb, and maybe sometimes I’d get stuck for weeks! I’d write, but write lousy. During that time I just changed the subject with you. If you said, “So, how’s it coming?” I’d ask if your brother was enjoying re-hab or how you’d lose those extra pounds, or if the abnormal growth on your arm was poisonous, and you’d let it go.

Now, though, you might as well know it. I’m stuck. I hate all these books and their bugs and hookers and weather, and their dalliances and miscues and odd little quirks. I hate sculptures that fall, and smashed falcons and haunted hotels and pomace and lees, I hate it all. I hate murders and lovers and things that explode in the night, I hate laptops that overheat, I hate the time between one and two. And so I’m going to Walgreen’s right now, I’m going there to apply. I’m going to ask them for an application to get a job, I’ll fill in my last places of employment, I’ll put you down for a reference. Please don’t mention my habit of wandering off when they call, or that shoplifting thing, or the little addictions I’ve got here and there. You can say I’m relatively clean and polite and have never killed someone on purpose and that will be fine.

The cat is not supposed to go out. It is not supposed to go outside the house, ever, not even once. I signed a contract to keep it shut in. And while I never encourage the cat to violate this pact, I must admit to you I don’t put a lot of effort into shutting it in. “Oh, what the hell” I said the first time it squeezed past. You see I open the door for the dog, I do it half a dozen times, I bet, each day. And while sometimes I make a small effort with my foot of holding the cat back, most of the time I say “Oh, what the hell” and let it go. I’ve told the cat I’m not responsible if he gets into a strange car, or takes catnip from unsavory characters, or consorts with the gang of deer by the creek, or agitates one or both of Ty and Ned. None of these, I’ve told the cat, is my problem. I’ve told him if he comes back I’ll feed him, but I won’t put up posters when he’s gone.

It’s worked so far. He’s not been nabbed by a hawk or infected in visible ways, he seems to be mindful of his freedoms. He comes back. The dog will not go out the back door where there is a large space that is fenced. He runs out the front door instead and terrorizes smaller animals and digests in other yards and always, for some reason, barks at Ned or Ty, whichever of them is oldest.

The three of us have a curious little chemistry. They seem to sense that I’m stuck, they’re given me space this week. They let me sit at the table with my red bull undisturbed, but sadly I’m still stuck. I’m going to read Lorrie Moore for a bit and then I’ll blind-pick something from the study and read that, too. Yesterday it was William Carlos Williams and that’s where I found “saxifrage”. It’s some sort of plant that grows out of rocks.

If you want to see a movie with me, call and I’ll go.

I didn’t quit smoking, by the way, but only because I haven’t started. I would have started this morning at the dentist, but I forgot. I think we’ve covered this already, but G.’s dental trips are no walk in the park. The dental staff, in fact, makes me pay for therapy and liquor. My insurance covers 80%.

This morning I offered G. $20 to just go through with it. She had to sit in a chair and open her mouth and let someone polish her teeth with cookie dough flavor cleaner. Then someone had to paint sealant on two teeth and that’s all they had to do, plus like I said, I offered her cash. It was painful. There were glares and we passed tequila around and other patients ran away screaming, but G. did make it through. The first time.

I’m reading a biography of Thelonius Monk and it reminds me that his last years were spent in Weehawken right down the street from someplace I lived. Monk lived with Nica who was a Baroness. She let Charlie Parker die in her house, too. When I come into money I’m going to be a patron and encourage drug-addled musicians to unravel and, ideally, die in my house. They’re always mysterious, these women, they get good coverage in the books.

The wind blew again last night which bothered me. It sounded like murderers, it sounded like there were eleven. Since it was dark and I couldn’t see outside the windows but figured the murderers could see in, I talked on the phone a lot. I’ve never seen murderers murder someone on the phone. Don’t laugh at me, obviously it worked.

I’m still troubled by things technical. WordPress, the gadget that lets me post here on this blog, is not completely corrupt anymore but is definitely at least half. It reminds me of H.’s laptop which went through a stage, once, of only showing one half of the screen. That’s kind of what I’m working with. I’m like Hawkeye on M.A.S.H. doing heart surgery by candlelight while bombs shake the tent. I wish M. were here because if I were patient and diligent I could manually upgrade and my problems would be over and the wind would likely stop. M. is patient and diligent and I bet he could upgrade in 12 minutes. He’s not here, though, so I just uploaded a few files. I did as little as possible to limp on, I’m limping on.

I’m making cassoulet tonight with my roommates, we’re serving it Thursday. Please, by all means, come by.

Have you missed me? There have been technical problems, they’ve been awful. There are hackers after me, this isn’t the first time. Someone is hacking me and it’s not very nice and I have cheap low-budget hosting so there’s very little in the way of support. Oh there’s so much to tell you, too, I’ve wanted to say so much. The wind, for instance. It’s been blowing all morning and things have fallen down and broken off and some things have scattered everywhere and others have shattered to pieces. The flag has been partially rent from its pole and is flying upside down. S. tells me this is the signal for distress which is perfect because I am in great distress. It’s distressful, I’m distressed, we’re all distressing, the situation’s distresstrous.

Before I go on I want to make sure things are working. I am alive, I’m writing stuff, I’ve started a memoir on shattered marriages and pending divorce, it will be huge.

The cat’s still a cat, the dog needs a bath, we’re down a hamster, there are now four.

Write me back. Tell me everything.