Friday, July 28, 2000

10:50 p.m. Late this afternoon, almost toward evening, we went to the boat store to get something called "dry gas," which is supposed to somehow help with the motor. It's right on the aisle next to "liquid wrench." The totally d.o.a. motor was going to be my ticket to a calm, maybe mall-to-mall shopping excursion this weekend, far far from the bounding main.

We also got some other magical stuff -- something to spray on the carburetor, I think. Who would have thought that any of this would work? Certainly not me. So we went over to the boat and Igor sprayed and yanked on the starter cord and I started reading an old Theodore Sturgeon to pass the time when what do I suddenly hear?

The horrible vroom-vroom of a, lord help us, motor starting. Our motor. This is not possible. Igor is a guy who's good at making phone calls and structuring deals -- not spraying motors and opening chokes. But where there's a stubborn will, there's always a way and now the thing is working again. Oh joy.

So, I'm writing this piece a little bit early because we're going to get a cough, early start tomorrow. A whole day on the boat! Maybe even two, if we're lucky.

I must think fast.

This is going to take a little bit of creativity. I wouldn't pretend that I'm sick because I'm superstitious and fear the monkey's paw. I can't claim work because if I were to get up from the desk for one single minute, I'd be found out. I can't say I feel a novel coming on and so I must hibernate and let it emerge, full-blown, from my head ... or can I?

That old creative process: You never know when it might strike.

1:51 a.m. We also rented two movies earlier tonight and just finished watching one of them -- Dogma, which was sort of ... disliked by a certain faction of the Catholic Church. It isn't a perfect movie, but it's certainly a thoughtful one.

I also noticed, as the credits were rolling, that there were more people involved with creating the feather effects alone than have worked on entire smaller movies. Styrofoam stuffers, sculptors, fluffers, modelers, puppets, stand-ins ... feather painters and retouchers ... and a dialect coach for Selma Hayek, who played the muse Serendipity.

I once saw Cher at Serendipity in New York. She came in, by herself, with a book and a backpack and no makeup and no one knew it was her. I thought it was a Cher wanna-be, a girl trying to act pained and artistic ... until I got outside and saw the limo and the bodyguards.

Serendipity. I've always believed in it. And love, and God. Maybe it will rain tomorrow ...