3:12 p.m. My strange Schwa calendar has the oddest notation on today's square: "Ancient Romans opened the door of the underworld." Now, what is that supposed to mean? All the other squares have traditional bits, as in October 14: The Battle of Hastings, 1066; or October 9: Great Chicago fire goes out, 1871. But what is the door of the underworld?

I do know that I'm going to have to leave my surface existence behind pretty soon and open my own door down to the next level. I've become entirely too complacent with little competencies here and there on the sunny first floor of my life -- lots of efficiency, little to no profundity. I've got the opposite of writer's block -- I've got manager's clock. It's time to stop worrying about which door the next meal is behind and start thinking about which door I must go behind. In other words: I've got to make something new out of words.

I've still got high hopes that I will be able to paint walls in the afternoons once I finish with my morning's work. Just about every wall in this house, inside and out, must be prepped and painted. I've always considered home improvement my moneymaking contribution to our meager lifestyle because once I finish cleaning and fluffing, we are then (in principle and in sync with the economy) able to sell the place for a profit.

That should work out just fine, the way it did with the last distressed property we bought, and the one before that, but the problem with this house is going to be a unique one: I've fallen in like. This house suits us. It has room enough for our books. If there's a tiny sliver of sun left in the cold winter sky, there is a conveniently placed window stuck somewhere in one of the walls to funnel it and pour it golden down onto the floor.

The house has been neglected and we've only been here for ten months, but I'm starting to really warm up to the place. The party a couple of days ago opened my eyes to what this house is capable of -- it seemed to welcome people more eagerly than I did. Plus, there's even a handy guest bathroom.

So, I may be capable of writing in the mornings and painting in the afternoons, but somehow I don't think I'm going to be able to slap a For Sale sign on this one so fast when I'm through. My secret (and you heard it here first) may just be that I'm never really going to finish the painting.

Maybe instead, I'll finish my novel. I believe that creativity is right around the corner now ... I can hear her whistling in the foggy marine air ... and if no more pipes burst and flood through the ceiling, I should be all set to go. I bravely turned on the washing machine this morning and finished up the laundry eventually. Now that's done. All the towels are dry and clean again. There are sausages in the freezer and Prestologs in the grate. All seems to be ready.

Now all I need is courage. It is so dark down there, and so lonely and I guarantee there are bugs. But that's the only place on the earth where the stories are, lined up like jars of grape preserves and pickled beets. The trick is to go down there and grab what you need and get the hell back up the stairs before the rubbery fingers of an old and rotting memory grab you by the ankle.

Courage! And maybe a good Mag Lite this time, just to be on the safe side.