8:00 P.M.

To write or not to write? No question about it. Write. But about what? Nothing? Everything? Daily routine. Run the reports. Verify forms of author names new to the catalog. Read e-mail. Send e-mail. Oooh! What's this? A copy of the Daily Emerald (the University of Oregon's student paper, actually only published twice a week during the summer) opened to a guest commentary about minor league baseball here in Eugene. And a post-it note strongly urging me to write some sort of rebuttal. I am intrigued. Indeed. I read it and as I do so I am aware of my elevating blood pressure. This is messing with my zen. The author is a dolt. I ponder how to respond all day. Once home I fire up the computer, re-read the piece that pissed me off, check some baseball stuff, and begin to write. Certainly not my greatest work. Probably doesn't even rank in the top ten. Not my worst effort either. Whether or not it is published, I felt a bit cleansed of the bilous petulance that had welled up in me. Besides, I did manage to use the phrase "looking for the fly feces in the pepper." (I cleaned that one up a bit.) Print, save to file. I'll send it tomorrow. As I lay on the sofa watching one of the fourteen televised games today, changing channels from game to game often, I keep thinking that there is something I should be doing. At least something I could be doing. Nahh. I go to the freezer to decide what to have for dinner. My homemade ravioli filled with steelhead and asparagus tips would be good with an alfredo sauce. A little grated parmesan, ever-so-slightly melting over the top. Mmmmm. Instead, I opt for a frozen TV dinner. The boneless barbecue pork one. Corn and mashed potatoes too. After I microwave it, I move all the contents into one section of the tray to mix the BBQ sauce with the potatoes. Now all that is left for me to do is to wait, patiently if I can, for a much-anticipated ring of the phone. Eighty-eight more minutes.