7:07 p.m. On the one hand, I really wanted to go out today, as usual. On the other hand, I was grateful that we didn't end up going out, as usual. Too many responsibilities crashing into the dead end of the week -- too little time to do it all before sundown. And then, finally -- sundown. There's a full moon tonight and I have a full dance card.

I should have learned by now that whenever I announce in these pages that "tomorrow we're going to ... "

... means that tomorrow we are not.

That, in fact, tomorrow will decide, not me. The unfolding day has a way of rearranging my schedules for me (pick a card, any card) and when I try to explain how and why the plans became undone, or who or why, I feel flakier than Martha's famous eggo en croute.

And I have such a longing to -- what? Complete every job I've only half started this month? Go radio silent and really get some serious writing done? Nap in the pale, strong sun? Where is the frustrated creativity that I used to take for granted? Have I micromanaged and overextended and driven it away?

The blank page demands. The baseball game drones. The doorbell buzzes and the pizza arrives on time. The guilty conscience throbs like a paper cut. I haven't finished a Sunday Book Review in months. Nor a book. I've fallen behind and I can't seem to catch up. Two walls are flat white and too many paragraphs are just plain flat.

What to do?

What to do?

How do I set my own brain ablaze again?

Scientists at Princeton announced to the world this week that, indeed, the brain keeps on making brand new cells as long as we are alive. New connections, new pathways ... unfurling Möbiusly each and every day. Even on a golden quiet day like today. Even now. Even as we connect. Or fail to.

I wait, but I am too impatient. Nothing strolls seductively by my chair in the time I've allotted, so I close up my easel and my notebook and my heart and my soul and I blame my workload and my in-laws and my old life choices when really, all that's really wrong is the tilt of the planet.

The light is dimming here in the Western Hemisphere and the days are running away. The most mature among us become melancholy and moody. The crazy ones are already deep in stupor. Only the stoic survive.

Today is Sunday. I should have made soup.

Tomorrow?