-- Monday, July 26, 1999 --

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11:10 a.m. It is amazing, truly amazing, what's going on here in my mind, now that I've got this little operation up and running. I would have thought ...

... that it would be easier by now.

... that I would have no fear by now.

... that I would know what I was doing by now.

But no. I'm here to tell you that "by now" is another one of those Zen riddly things. There is no such thing as "by now." There's only "now." Am I going to erase everything I've just written? Probably, unless you're reading this.

Since yesterday, I've begun and erased maybe five different beginnings, and twice as many photos, art bits, and what-nots for decoration. To say I don't know what I'm doing would be a gross misunderstatement. I thought I knew. I was wrong.

Partly, and don't let anybody fool you -- this is new territory, folks. When have you ever read someone's diary this easily before? Normally, you'd be covered in cobwebs by now, or at least sitting among smelly socks in your sister's closet. And once you get the locked picked, and the code deciphered, who are your going to tell about what you've just read? If you've ever been one of those bad kids who finds the Christmas presents and -- God help you -- opens them up in secret, you know the grievous gloom that comes over you when you realize you're all alone in your joy, forever silent, if you know what's good for you.

But, this is not like that. This is private and public at the same time. It's that nightmare of running down the street in your undies, or of getting married without taking a bath first. Consequently, all manner of strange self-censoring is going on here. I will recount merely the last 24-hours' worth. (Because nobody knows, and I feel guilty.)

Yesterday I didn't write about subjects too small to matter -- the fact that a sandwich I ate was 790 calories because I didn't have my glasses on. I thought it was under 200. I didn't write about World War II or the Holocaust even though the movies were screaming from the VCR in the background, even through my closed office door, because, well, duh. I didn't write about what I'm not having for breakfast this morning as punishment to myself:

even though I went to all the trouble to color in the yolk and lasso the image and gif-it up and all. It's just too stupid to talk about dieting. Male readers will yawn. Are there male readers? I know there's one, at least. (Hi! David ... have you gotten this far? Good for you.)

I didn't write about the real reasons I'm doing this in the first place because I'm shy. Well, that's not exactly right. I'm trying to find the best face. Or the right image. I've got a whole bunch of them lined up from my latest walk. I want to talk about why we came to California in the first place. But, I want to do it right. Pick the right words. Did I ever tell my kids about sex? You'd think I would remember that. I fear I waited too long for just the right words. Geeze -- what if they still don't know?

I used to look at my tiny baby and think, with glee, that I could say that blue is yellow and that's how it would be for that little brain until years and years later. Or, this spoonful of orange mush hovering over the little open mouth -- this is what vanilla tastes like. By the power vested in me, I could declare to those big blue innocent trusting eyes that the sky is puce, and who could stop me? Ah well.

It's all in your mind, anyway. Remember that. It's only a movie. It's only make-believe. You are not merely what you eat. You are entirely what you think. Look at this morning's paper -- because one athlete believed in himself instead of believing in cancer, the American flags are waving in Paris and it's the glorious and victorious Tour de Lance.

Tomorrow ...