Today seven fifty AM thoughtful dog-walker woman in a red goretex™ jacket knocked and then rang the bell as I ran through my shorts holding jeans and shirt shivering at the front door she announced that a raccoon was steadily wheezing sad dying laying in my driveway.

Mercy she cried, clouded in other words, this is a dying beast, as her puffy black dog strained at the leash to have another look and maybe a bite? No disease, she surmised, but I saw blood on raccoon's whiskers.

I am charged with a feeling of disquiet I can distract with play and beauty. I am still not sure what I should be writing. Tangibly, there are three projects: a novel lacking a rear end, a travel guide to tokyo/japan memoir one quarter revised, and a "book about games or digital living" that I must either coherently brainstorm/outline or write more articles in that area to better flesh out my thoughts/qualifications.

This week I went to Las Vegas to perform briefly as a model in a fashion show. Last night I played "Splinter Cell" an Xbox sneaking and shooting game for two hours. Before, Jane and I watched "A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum." surprise I bought that movie last week because she mentioned it was one of her favourites growing up. I can see the camp in it, the media parodying media, the exuberant acting of Zero Mostel, the latin-in-jokes, the roman context. It was fun to watch with her -

cultivating love. I am in a relationship with a woman so beautiful and intelligent to me. I work to find things for us to do, for us to share, that we can develop bonds and appreciate each other. And she does for me as well - her most recent drawing, klee-inspired, sits on the dining table where we last ate eggs cooked in the grease of the bacon from breakfast. That was earlier this week.

All of her mind and resources, all that we could collaborate on. All that my debt reminds me I must produce something. Even recent weblogs remind me why writing might emerge from the soul

at least on a weekly basis. There's a financial imperative to keep selling ideas. To twist my "wow!" view of all human endeavor to be specific and audience-minded. I sit amidst so many toys and tools and technologies, I talk to many artists and writers and thinkers. I see culture because I take time to lift my chin from the pavement and conveyor belt. And then I have to package it and sell it. Push it.

That would be easier if I had a common thread - if I knew the package wrapping my thoughts and interests. Participant or observer? Involvement, conflict of interest.

I'm reminded daily by small needles inscribed by tiny lasers reading "money" and "relevance" - they poke prick my hands and I find myself in cabs in the desert phantom typing emails to publishers and provocateurs to continue surrounding myself with stimulation and settings that might pull from me my purpose.

And with Jane. To share without stifling, to understand how intertwingled might be our work writing. And the mesh netting pink surrounding is love, cultivated, spontaneous. Sometimes stress planning cuts away at those strings. And expectations. Concerns about money and relevance. We spent a half an hour this morning synchronizing our calendars.

And I kiss the dirty ground that today I will wonder, cable or satellite? Is TV worth having? Will I enjoy it on the couch with my baby? Or sitting with notepads and laptops, dissecting what's shoveled, pulling back pixels to reveal hurried attempts to make something passable to make a buck to fuel true desire. What does this have to do with our studies? Media literacy. Which media? That I have these choices, with this lady, is my delight. But I must justify. Torn! Money. Love!