9:14 p.m. Well, I'm going to start this entry with no idea how I'm going to end it. Sort of like life, or any morning you get up, I suppose. I know that I'd like to write a piece that makes me feel good when I'm done, or one that makes me proud when I print it out tomorrow, or one that I can bear to read a month from now.

And, my current picture cache is running low, so I can't be too choosy. Plus, dinner is over and I haven't even started this one yet, and that's always a bad sign. Plus, I wish I could take a nap -- right now -- but then I would most certainly be up all night and that's not so smart.

10:46 p.m. Nothing.

11:56 p.m. Ok. So, why can't I write? I've been working all day designing a layout and getting ready to speed-pour an entire huge nonfictional account of one man's trials and tribulations with the US government into PageMaker 6.5. It's a long story. He's in a rush to sell it to his personal fans and supporters and I've got some long nights ahead with this one. So I've been awash in picas and points and subheads and footnotes.

I'm sort of tired of words.

12:17 a.m. Eureka! I found the perfect pictures stashed away in the throwaway pile. Not so fast, missy ... we're getting desperate here.

I took these two pictures a couple of weeks ago, just as I was getting settled in my new, quite comfy office space. The wall to my right is blindingly white, thanks to many coats of just-right-white paint. And I had to hang my calendar up right away because I sometimes walk in a dream and forget what day it is.

So, there on the perfect white wall is my black and white Schwa calendar with the days until the end of the century counting down quite conveniently. And there under the calendar and shockingly marring the perfect surface was a teeny tiny inchworm.

As you (except for Miriam) can see in the second photo, he's worked his way along. Boring, right? A metaphor for today's struggles. But eventually, you would think he disappeared under the calendar, right?

By the time I put the camera down and looked up at the wall again, he was gone.

Or so I thought.

So, there I am merrily computing away, with my right hand cleverly manipulating the Turbo-mouse ball even though I am left-handed ... and I believe, by the way, that this is one of the prime reasons that I write differently on the computer than I do on paper ... right brain, left brain, measuring the marigolds ... come on, sing along ... you all know the inchworm song ... you and your arith-ma- ...

yeeeeowwwww!

It was suddenly on my index finger and before I could flick it off -- it bit me. I still have the teeny tiny little wound. I could take a picture and email it if you don't believe me. It's just about healed, but really, how do they have such big teeth in such a little body?

It's the same with little bitty ants. If you let them stay on you, they bite. Where are their teeth? How can this be?

The incredible mysteries of the animal kingdom, of which we are all sniveling siblings. You know what I read the other day? (David: close your eyes and don't read this next sentence.) I read that in the course of your lifetime you will, on average, swallow eight spiders in your sleep.

Well, I won't be needing that nap anymore. And I'm not the slightest bit sleepy now, come to think of it. I think I'll just put some water on to boil and maybe work through the night. Keeping my mouth shut and breathing through my nose, thank you very much.

See you tomorrow.