It's been a month, and I get on my bike and ride down there, down past M Street, past the construction site, then left onto the bike lane on L, up the couple blocks to 19th, take the U-lock off the mountain bike's handlebars, lock the yellow bike, take the helmet off and into my blue courier bag, across the street, in through the lobby to the elevator, up to the Fifth Floor.

Yeah, so I bring her up to date with my visit to my mom, the doctor appointment, the driver's license renewal, etc..  The clock ticks, I talk along with some form of purpose, an inventory of work and travel, the way things stand.

About thirty five minutes on, I'm talking about what might have been the plan, as they call it, what I wanted to achieve, where was I headed, subliminally or not.  So I mumble, leaning back on the beige couch looking up toward the ceiling then out the window to the left, back at her in her chair, her white shoes, pink nail polish.  She's still paying off student loans.  You do what's doable.  They don't effect your credit rating the way other stuff does...

The plan was to work a job, sort of like Melville, Conrad, Twain...  And then use that as the basis for writing...  An iceberg of experience.

But then come along all those talented writers who sit down and write and are so immediately good that they get published and receive acclaim.  Philip Roth, I bring him up, and also how I've outgrown Goodbye, Columbus to some extent.


You had a plan.  She says.  And it didn't work out the way you might have hoped.

You're petrified of making any sort of change...



Jesus, Buddha, they failed first time around.

The week goes on.  The night is very intense, very busy, straight running from six on, til midnight.  It is hard on the mood, a long day...  A friend takes me out to an art opening down in Georgetown...