Over the past several years, my weekdays have coursed through some habitual rituals: I wake up when I'm not tired anymore, commune with my wife, and let my dog outside. I then check out the news on the Internet, stretch, shower, get dressed, and head straight for the kitchen. I prepare my usual breakfast-two pieces of toast, brushed with olive oil, drizzled with honey and a light spread of blackberry jam (seedless). With this, I have two of Matt's brand peanut butter cookies and high-mountain tea from Taiwan. During this time, I read and must have complete silence so I can concentrate on the rhythm of taking one bite of cookie, then toast, and a sip of tea without losing my reading spot (this practice requires an expertise and, if alternating the bites correctly, has the taste of glorified peanut butter and jelly sandwiches). My afternoons entail a 13-minute commute, with my dog, to either my studio or school to teach. When hunger sets in, I return home to cook dinner with my wife and discuss the day's events, then, try to catch a hockey game on satellite TV. My weekends are a little different. During all these activities, I am sifting through ideas and images that rush through my mind, trying to figure out why and where they belong.