For me, the "clean, well-lighted place" is no room or café, nor is it well-lit. It is an hour before dawn in the 120-degree circular third from my NE window—Mt. Baker to Mt. Rainier—showing a pre-lilac purple, the dark edge of the Cascades 100 miles away, a thick outline separating dark earth against barely-lightened sky: the leaning outcome, however, pointing.

The enjoyment is being the only one up, absorbing the startle of waking yet again (58 years now), pleasured by the mechanically boring light off the computer screen illumining the half-full mug of first coffee (crystal, a map of the world etched on it); the first cigarette's rosy tit to remind one of the meaning of gawdawful Habit being dragged along life's zig-zag path (whatever alteration/resolution one tries to make…like rue unshakable, like long-ago error echoing). Yet it is—mercifully—the Startle which always gets the upper hand, wedging in, nudging aside Regret and Mistake, as though inside the very substance of this inexplicable bewilderment a latent glimmer lay, an eternal Fulcrum lifting all the past aside (chug-chug-chug—thunk), every 'been-there-done-that', each 'whatever' tallied and stored, but the gist ever listing toward new, if fuzzy, hope into fresh, though undefinable, chance, the clean 24/7 slate!

And since this miracle always happens—someone told me once that 'miracle' means 'smile'—I accept that given with unadulterated gratitude: the first half-hour gone by now, the horizon violet, quickly rose, quickly gold then yellow so soon (yet not too soon—so exciting), squinting glaring white, for sun-up is instantaneously blinding. (Try a 5-second stare and see whether what I say is true). Warming shoulder-to-waist, the globular shape of that third cup of coffee clear now, its steaming whole world intransigently fixed and adamantine, the first full ashtray (nasty Habit) emptied. Involuntary yawns (someone once told me: more oxygen to the brain.) Eyes widened. Sand knuckled out. Head shaken, and great, shivering, first noise of the day sighs.

So, mind and untutored fingertips (seems skipping high school typing did not matter at all: over half-a-million words this year—already: 8/19/2001) begin to compose their first propitiations:

Thank you for the e-mail, L. Yes, yes, I know you did not expect the card and 2 buckeroos, but they are just a kudo for your effort, all I had in my wallet, a little shaving off the ransom at the PO. Wish the stamps were prettier, too, but that is another subject (and one I don't have time to wax about just now)!
tim

You are such a boon, M, adroitly editing sense into my elliptical and prolix sentences. Thanks so much! Try harder I must—will—as you have used up real TIME in kind attentiveness.
Yr servant, timothy

Yes, L, one would think that A.C. would have a 'thicker skin' re constructive criticism, yet what is one to do? Should I tout everything he writes, be a false and lying witness; do a smirking 'You-scratch-my-back-and-I'll-scratch- yours?' Cannot, cannot. It must ever be the light-as-God-gives-the-light. What other answer has one the right to speak or write? A hedge? A briery of quasi—ersatz—qualification? A spin? If so, how in hell do I back out of that thicket, claiming the next review a real Honest Injun? Nope. One cannot serve God and Mammon! Later, bud… , dawn here and gone… , and Brownie is nuzzling my elbow for his first walk in the woods. The four horses across the road are running round the pasture. It must be a working out of kinks settling in their bodies during dark, cool, night. Wonder whether it's involuntary… , like a yawn?
Praise be!—T. S.