12:06 a.m. Still gray today, just like in this photo from Sunday. It looks as if we're getting an early dose of the interesting seaside condition known as June Gloom. It's another one of the gimmicks, like gang wars, created by the Venice Chamber of Commerce to keep the crowds away.

It's a clever ruse. You wake up in the morning, any time from sun-up to well past noon, you look out the window, and you see: low weather. Linty fuzz; cottony, dew-heavy clouds pushing into your bedroom and erasing your plans. Scratch the beach, you say. Might as well go to the Job Depot and punch their clock until dinner.

That's what they want you to do. By the time you're on you way in the opposite direction, the sea-scam scrim burns off and the sun comes blazing through. The locals go about their business unobstructed, the beaches are pleasantly deserted, and you are otherwise committed. Works like a charm.

It works best of all on tourists, of course. Their days are waiting to be filled and if they come from anywhere else on earth, gray means gray and clouds don't just suddenly up and away. So, it's off to the Getty or One Rodeo swathed in sweaters and packing a telescoping black umbrella. By 4 p.m., they're all sitting out on Starbucks patios, heads thrown back and shoulders bare, lamenting their plight.

But since I'm not a tourist, I know the story and I wait each day for the happy ending. What I like about this two-tone weather is that you get two days in one: the slow, non-demanding foggy mornings that are conducive to repose and reflection, and then the vibrant go-go afternoons. Perfect weather for reading and weeding, in whichever order you prefer. Assuming order means anything.

I've been trying to figure out how to re-train myself to write my daily entries in the morning again. I can't figure out what's going on with the writing part of my brain. It doesn't seem to want to sit down at the table and move the alphabet blocks around until after the world has quieted down and I've tucked the couch blanket around Igor and turned off the TV. Then, and only then.

Do I stop letting the world think for me. I close up the New York Times and put it in the big basket by the fireplace. I stack the mail and put the Time and the Newsweek on a shelf, usually face-down because the eye-catching cover photo is too distracting to walk past without snagging another and another reluctant thought.

I literally have to stop listening to the day's demanding input. There's always Hillary and Rudy and today it was Michael J. Fox and yesterday it was an incredibly thin Bette Midler and tomorrow it will be Al and George W. and some new stranger talking to me from the countertop where their photos are spread.

I've always paid attention, and I wonder how much more I can afford to pay?

I think the only way you can write something is to hush up the loud voices so you can hear the whispering one. That's what I've got to remember tomorrow morning when the shouting starts up again. It's getting me worried, this lack of balance in my life these days. Just doing what I'm told, completing; doing what's expected of me, competent. There's skill, but there's no art there.

Whereas, while these nighttime bits are decidedly flimsy, they do have that all-important element that makes them artful: They are unnecessary. Totally uncalled for. A shell game played with shadows, arranged for your reading pleasure.

This is a good thing. It's just not a daytime thing.