Every now and then I can tell that Koko, our green budgie, is excited to see us, my mother and me. This usually happens around lunch or dinner, when we are all in the kitchen, where the bird resides. Suddenly, it springs to life. Screeching loudly, it rocks from left to right, hops about, pulls at the sundry toys surrounding it, crawls hurriedly around the cage from the inside. But if I make an attempt to join the bird in its merriment, it stops in its tracks, returns to its perch, and starts blinking at me, as though unsure what to do next. Today at lunch I realized my experiences with Koko are not that different from my occasional experiences with writhing. From time to time, I feel that I am ready to go, ready to sit down and write something wonderful, but as soon as I am really at it, as soon as all the impediments have been brushed aside, the empty notebook page or computer screen starts blinking back at me with such incomprehension, such puzzlement that I am left with no other alternative but to give up. The next time this happens, I am sure to think of Koko. My own Koko.