I tried twice today to sit down and write an entry, but I was not feeling the least bit reflective, let alone confessional. The summer�s heat is rolling over me in waves, willing my limbs to move in slow motion, if at all, preferring to be draped languidly over the sides of chairs or propped up on small and conveniently located tables.

Despite the cicadas, the heat, the perpetual dampness of August, there are signs that summer is thinking about moving out. The berries on the vibernum are turning red. Acorns are beginning to drop from the bur oaks and the squirrels are quick to gather them up and carry them off. Fall is coming.

I�ve been in a taking-in mode, rather than an analytical or editorial frame of mind. I remember those moments of over-stimulation as a child, where all the senses are absorbed at once, leaving the brain skipping from one sensation to the next, unable to process anything, just sucking it up like a sponge to hold until it can be sorted and organized. The freight train that passes on the platform, ruffling the pages of my book with three engines and 114 cars. The girl across the aisle who is on her cell phone talking to her friend Maria (I know this because every sentence is addressed directly to her). She calls Taylor St. �Little Italy� (strike one), and the center city park �Grant�s Park� (strike two � Grant Park) and the very train we are on the Metro (strike three � Metra), despite the fact that she is face to face with a large Metra sign. The man further down who is engaging in some comically loud Pringle crunching � I can hear it through my headphones. The thin stream of perspiration that slides down my neck and between my shoulder blades.

AJ and I spent the morning at a nearby playground, the one on the river in the next town from which you can see boats and trains at the same time. It is a little boy�s paradise. The park was packed with children and AJ spent about half his time swinging next to a little girl who giggled every time he did. They made silly faces at each other every time their swings synced. After she departed for adventures elsewhere, AJ found two little boys with whom to play tag, hide-and-seek and other games of their own invention before I had to drag him to the grocery store, which, needless to say, was not met with enthusiasm.

Slept through most of the afternoon as I shuffled paper around my desk, paid bills, filed. Anything but write. And then he woke in time to say goodbye before I headed into town for book group.

My train was late, causing me to miss a crucial connection in my transportation. Rather than take the southside bus, I elected to splurge on a cab. The first one I grabbed declined to take me to the south side. But I hit gold on cab number two. The yellow cab was driven by a large man who seemed to take his hair-styling tips from Don King, He said his name was Isaiah, in a deep voice that made me wonder if, in fact, Barry White really was dead. A continuous stream of old Mo-town and soul hits poured out of the speakers and had me dancing in my seat. He shook his head at the driver who�d evicted me from his cab. �He don�t know what he�s missing.�

I arrived at L.�s house a little early, as she�d suggested. We poured ourselves wine and I spooned hummus into the bowl as we discussed assorted news and waited for the rest of the crew.

We dined on an array of salads and Chicken grilled with mangos and sun-dried tomatoes. We discussed Jonathan Lethem�s Fortress of Solitude. Or rather, we tried to. Only two had finished the book and only two more had read more than half. There was a definite split between those who�d only read a little, who pretty much all hated it and those who�d read more who thought it was one of the best books they�d ever read. This was unsurprising to me. I don�t think I�ve ever loved a book so much that I read so slowly. Some found the prose difficult and hard to read, but I found it incredibly lucid and accurate, evocative. But it is prose to linger on. I read a little at a time until I hit around page 150, at which point the book began keeping me up at night until I had finished it. I went back and reread the beginning on the train this afternoon and it was eye-opening. The whole novel is laid out in the first seven pages, only you don�t know it until you get to the end. The masterful part of the book is the interweaving of themes and the least likely element, the ring, the superhero powers, turns out to be the key to putting it all together.

I left early with B. who gave me a lift to the train as we discussed babies (she�s seven months pregnant) and books and traffic and more babies. The train filled up with tired people working late and wound-up children up way past their bedtimes and slid off into the night. I arrived home tired, but very awake, despite my refusal of after-dinner coffee.

And tomorrow? Another new archive to explore.

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