Friday. The days have been overcast, rain Wednesday night, and I have this creepy feeling summer is coming to an end. Do you suppose?

It happens.

Why do I have to learn this over and over? Why does it always surprise me when I finally notice the days are getting darker earlier, the rain - yes, actual rain - has arrived and I, perceptive I, am surprised? Probably genetic. Blame it on the parents. Best, I think, to put in a stock of beverages I can drink in front of the fire and, if you (as I) don't have a fire, beverages that will start a fire without the need of matches.

I take it we are having trouble getting started?

Been that way all week. The head, yes, it gets in the way, but no desire to sit down and write deathless prose. One is put on this planet to write deathless prose, after all, it says so on a stone tablet in Mesopotamia: “Thou Shalt Write!” This knowledge passed down through generations from one King's Fool to another. “Thou Shalt Write!” Badly or well, it doesn't matter (but well is better).

And where does your own writing fall within the Commandment?

I don't want to think about it. My ego is fragile, less fragile as the years pass, but fragile. Without a bottle of sake now and again it could shatter, pieces scattered all over the apartment. No, really. I've seen it happen more than once, here in Oakland.