Terrible insomnia. Crashed into exhuastion Friday afternoon post reading, came home and circled the desk before settling in to write. Gave up for bed when I felt it felt too easy, that the tensions holding it together are uncoiling towards redundancy. Woke yesterday with an anxious head but a body too tired to take care of much of anything besides groceries with H. Circled the desk again all day but didn't look at the document. You know what to do about redundancy my head said and my head said yes but give me time to do it in, I don't feel imaginative enough today. And the other voices: what do you think you're doing? You can't be serious. Go water the plants and do laundry if you want something worthwhile to do. But I expect those when the writing is scary. If they weren't there to put up obstacles, would it have been worth it after all? So when the light slanted towards evening I went out with the camera for a walk and looked for things I wouldn't have otherwise seen--a firetruck in a repair shop window, lovers on a set of stairs, rails catching the setting light and running off into the distance on a bend--and came home with my nervous head atwitter and picked up the catechism where there is always something strange to ponder. I took it to bed. It reminds me of the joy of reading Milton. I got up all night, found nothing to do, went down again. A hard won day of rest. So I kicked and screamed the whole way. So what.
***
Protoevangelium:
"I will put enmity between you
and the woman
and between your offspring
and hers;
he will strike your head,
and you will strike his heel."
***
