The 10th Inning, With Frank Capra

After a long and cold night, me shivering in my sleep (but actually getting some sleep, off and on, and without any sleep aid -- we can save the Restoril for another slumber), I awaken to find us in the 10th inning, score still tied -- 0-0. It's a brand new ballgame, and though it looks rainy outside, at the nearby "Field of Dreams," the sun has emerged, and the night game has turned into a day game, or rather, morning game.

You still can't see the ghosts, but I'll write them in soon enough. Eleanor wants to pitch, but I told her that would be a poor Bad News Bears cliche. So we'll find a good position for her -- I'm thinking second base? This could last for a while. The ballgame, I mean.

All we need is to hold the score, at least the opposition's score, to zero. And then we hit the dramatic walk-off home run. The stage (and field) is/are set. But we have to play it out.

I actually think Frank Capra is the culprit in all of these doings (culprit being used in the very best condition). Reading my morning edition of The Writer's Almanac (MPR), I discover that it's Mr. Capra's birthday. He was born this day way back in 1897, in Bisaquino, Sicily.

According to The Almanac, Mr. Capra had a simple synopsis that could be translated to all of his films: "A simple honest man, driven into a corner by predatory sophisticates, can, if he will, reach down into his God-given resources and come up with the necessary handfuls of courage, wit, and love to triumph over his environment."

Now, I'm not sure yet what my own "predatory sophisticates" are, as they're not external, but internal. That's something to figure out, and I will, through this process of therapy and writing.

And speaking of writing, the writing high is beginning to flitter through my veins. The alone-ness has gone away for a bit. Maybe I shivered it out in my sleep. I know I dreamt of Eleanor, so I must have been working in my dreams.

I'm ready for Day Seven of 28. Bring it on.