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Blank on dreams from last night. Remembered nada of any dreams I might have had. Curious.
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Drove to the ocean this morning. It was windy and chilly, but refreshing. There were hordes of birds sitting on the dunes. Only walked past one person on the beach, a fisherman. Otherwise the sands were empty of people.

There were several driftwood assemblies on the beach. The mysterious artist from the Miramar Beach book still appears to be active. The assemblies would be destroyed by the incoming tides.

I walked for a long ways. First headed south and then back north so the wind was at my back on the return. It was fairly cool for an August day. Went to the fish and chips place for lunch. Had a calamari and fish plate with rice--fish broiled. Calamari was excellent. Fish was somewhat tasteless. Rice was nice.

Drove back into the heat and hubbub of the peninsula. When I got home, fell asleep in between reading more of the stories by Oates. Been thinking a lot today about what I might write (aside from this endless journal). I can't seem to find a starting place--a theme, or concept, or even good story ideas. Can't find a purchase point from which to begin writing as I envision myself writing.

I've dumped thousands of words and hundreds of pages into this journal and my poetry blog, but after a year (and more than that) I'm where I've always been--about to start writing. I'm growing tired (and bored) with this expectation, and I'm running short of time. Spoke to H today and asked how the writing was going. I told him I'd written hundreds of pages, but nothing that was publishable. Just spout, spout and blather. Blick and blong. Enumerated nonsense at best.

I've been here in my garden retreat place for nearly a year. I've not created anything worthy of publication. I've simply filled up spaces on the screen with dozens of dream fragments and desultory notes on mundane daily events.

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death... I grow old, I grow old... shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled? Other poets inhabit my thoughts. Other writers inhabit my dreams. Where is the beginning and the end? From where does it all unravel?

Once again to dream, tonight. Let the silver fingers of the night caress my dreams and awaken me to wonders.