Okay. I have about 30 minutes to write this week's column and I have no idea what it's going to be about at this point. So I invite you to join me in the creative process as my fingers flitter around the computer keyboard chalking up column inches at an impressive rate.

The reason I'm so hurried is that I have a Village Council continuation meeting tonight, not to mention leftover spaghetti cooking in the office microwave.

As I write, my ears are attuned, like a Pavlovian puppy, to hear that little dinner bell announcing that my food is ready, or rather piping hot sauce on the bottom and still-chilled pasta in the middle, as microwaves are wont to do. Actually, all it needs is a good stirring so things heat up evenly.

I suppose that's a metaphor for the human condition as well. We all need to stir things up from time to time or else all of our physical and psychological sediment settles on the bottom. That's why yogis do headstands and great thinkers...drip spaghetti sauce on their white polo shirt.

Drat! I should know better than to eat and type at the same time, but my problem is time. I don't seem to have enough of it these days. Gotta eat, Gotta run. Gotta spend three hours a day on I-95 getting from home to work and work to home. That leaves 21 hours to sleep, earn a living, pay bills, play with my son, kiss my wife, fix-up our old new house, work on my website, paint cosmic landscapes, wash dishes, bathe my son, change him, make his lunch, wipe his nose, read the paper, cook, wash dishes again, do the laundry, take out the trash, sweep the floor, feed and walk the dog, phone my mother, e-mail friends, grab a beer and a bite... Does the world turn as fast for you?

I remember the days when I had plenty of time to dream and write stories and books and even stand on my head like a yogi. I remember when I could meditate, actually lie down and do absolutely nothing--not even think--in the middle of the day, no less. And speaking of not thinking, I remember days when I could watch three or four hours of TV at a stretch.

Those were the days my friend, I thought they'd never end. Now days seem to be over as soon as they begin. Days, weeks, months, years, decades and now even millennia seem shorter than they've ever been.

And because there seems to be less time, people are doing everything faster. Cunanan shoots Versace. Story at six. Mini-series at nine. The world spins like a top, and I'm like the White Rabbit running on it in place looking at my watch and muttering, "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late..." Jeez. I really am late! The meeting starts in five minutes and I'm still sitting here with spaghetti stains on my shirt. Gotta go, go, go...

Uh...excuse me if the tone of this column has suddenly changed tempo. No doubt it is due to the soporific nature of Village Council meetings, where I now sit lazily continuing my column longhand.

Though some people might consider government meetings to be boring, this is really a refuge from the frenzy of modern life for me. Here, time moves more slowly. In fact, the hands of the clock over Sam Kissinger's head seem to barely move, especially when engineers or attorneys are speaking in tongues.

Here, in my chair by the window, I can gaze at the Village Green as the clouds slowly blush pink before turning in for the night.

The Mayor and Councilmember recommendations go relatively fast. The Village clerk announces several proclamations, including one for "Licensed Midwives Awareness Week." Then it's on to the manager's report at 8:15.

With luck, I think that the meeting will end by 9:00. But the hands on the clock slow to a near halt as the Council discusses a landscaping maintenance contract.

This is the time a part of the crowd has been waiting for. This is the time for the Key Biscayne Beautification Foundation to take the stand and demand that the Council pay more attention to the island flora.

Here, my mind wanders again. But my ears pick up some interesting tidbits of conversation:

"The ladies of the Beautification Foundation have to understand that everything they want can't be done yesterday." Councilmember Mort Fried.

"There must be a lot of confusion when it comes to maintaining a tree." Mayor John Festa.

"If we're not pleased with the way things are, we can't blame Gorgeous Lawns." Councilmember Gregory Han.

At times, it seems almost surreal.

"Men do not see things as women do, especially in the garden." resident Haydee Archibald.

"The caladiums have done quite well this year." Village manager Sam Kissinger.

I'm reminded of Jerzy Kosinski's classic novella, Being There, in which an idiot gardener named Chance makes observations about the garden he tends which government officials interpret as brilliant metaphors for policy and adopt him as presidential advisor.

The discussion about the Village landscaping lasts 45 minutes and seems to take hours. I wish the rest of my life could take place at this pace so I would have more time to reflect upon it and write for fun and paint and maybe even read a book.

But it's not to be, because I have too much to do for the time allotted. Soon, the frenzy will start again. Up before the sun and still hurrying to get my son ready for day care and myself for work. A day filled with traffic to beat and deadlines to meet. It's the stuff of ulcers and heart attacks.

I suppose the only defense is to just fill your heart with love: love for your son, love for your wife, love for your job, love for your life. Rather than fight those simple day-to-day frustrations, embrace them with affection and humor.

No matter how tough things might seem, in the future, these will be the good old days. You can go through life kicking and screaming or hugging and kissing. The choice is yours. And if you can learn to love changing diapers and mopping the floor and even creeping though rush hour on I-95, then your time here on earth will be well spent, whether you're sailing on the open sea or listening to the Mayor talk about trimming a tree.