1:10 a.m. What a Monday. Typical Monday. You feel as if you can't catch up and yet it's stop. And go. And stop again. Everyone is in a hurry and yet we all have to wait our turn.

It's so hard to see the landscape for the traffic sometimes. This dun gray photo, for example, is a picture of the world-famous Santa Monica Pier, which means that the entire expanse of the fabulous wide Pacific ocean is right there. If the bus would move out of the way, if the cars would all turn either right or left, there it is.

It is right there before your eyes, but all you can see are the red tail lights. Obstructions. Involvements and responsibilities. When right there, right out of your reach: sweet escape.

Ah, Monday.

Some days it feels as if I'll never catch up, no matter how many laps I run.

Everyone's gone to the moon.

And yet, here comes more and more and more generations of women, each one younger and prettier than the next. Welcome new generations! Welcome new family members! There is a bride that I've never seen, but she is a beauty ... and if time will give me a break, one day I will get to know her.

For now, I have to write obscurely. There are jobs I'm backed up on that I can't talk about. There are family going's on that I can't talk about.

Since this daily entry is a report, some days I have to report that I'm stumped. I've drawn a careful circle on the ground. When ants crawl in and marbles roll by, I will report those activities in full. But whatever goes on outside the circle must remain clouded in haze, swaddled in silence. Privacy rules.

So, today there was no activity within the tight, klieg-lit circle. A veritable traffic jam outside the circle -- must go unremarked. Hard to be a reporter on the moon.

However, this is the *only* price I'm paying for the privilege of writing every day. No big deal. Small change, really. But it's frustrating to stay still when there's lots to say.

Tomorrow, if I have to, I'm going to go out on the street and cause some kind of ruckus and then I'm going to take its picture.

Meanwhile, the stories that can't be told today mature and mellow in their juices. One of these tomorrows, they will be ready to serve. Until then, I must keep the peace and keep it out of this piece.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow's another story.