Saturday, 31 August 2013


For the past two nights I have slept fitfully, not poorly, just fitfully; and I have woken at seven without a trace of sleep in my body or brain. Have I become a dreaded morning person? Whatever the reason, I have taken the time to move myself to a café where I have spent hours reading and writing, and I have come to the realization (once again) that creativity satisfies some deep longing in my soul. I am most happy when I have written something down. Here is a line with which I am particularly pleased:

"The music changed, violins altering their mellow tones into something sharper, parting the crowds into performer and audience like a surgeon peeling back the skin to reveal the constructs of their social order, the bones, the taut ligaments, the pulpy, beating mass of their affiliations. Tight groups divided into tighter couples, men and women in rigid pose, shoulders straightened into perfect lines. The dance began slowly, the pairs turning, bowing, pulsing in riveting precision across the floor, fixed points alternating in an eternal, mechanical beauty."

This past week was terrible--I hovered on the verge of sickness with a headache that pressed behind my eyeballs like an enemy at the gate. I could accomplish nothing in the evenings as much as I tried, and I went to bed feeling incomplete. The headache seems finally to have lifted, though my unusually eager morning spirit has yet to dissipate. It is currently nine o'clock on a Sunday morning, and I am sitting at a café and working on my book.

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