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Last night I slept decently (maybe 5 hours). Not bad. Of late I've had terrible insomnia. I haven't even been able to nap late in the afternoon. It's left me feeling as vacant and crazy as I must look.

My eyes feel warm. A bit of the blue seems to have left them. My mouth feels smaller.

These times just happen. There's nothing for us to do but wait it out and avoid making it worse by vapor-locking on it.

The mind has been on fire, yet to very little practical use. In part, it has to do with work that I'm just waiting to see work out. And in part--mostly--it has to do with trying to find a comfort zone with writing and resolving that it (as in the success of the writing) just might not happen. Ever. That's frustrating, but it's not worth carving out a heart for or letting the mind and spirit flatline.

So I had one of those pleasant, recharging moments last night during which one gets one's head in order simply through routine. I went down to the storage space--into which some idiot tried to break not long ago; Masterlock has foiled you, sucker!--and found my Christmas Carol CDs. It's Patrick Stewart giving a rather spirited reading.

The cover alone makes me laugh. Stewart's photo sits in an egg-shaped window. He's in a tux, as if caught in a stage performance, and he's got a very severe expression and an accusatory finger pointed at the lens. He looks like an angry, shiny-headed Uncle Sam at a black-tie affair.

So I played the first of the two discs while washing dishes. When I'd finished those, I cleaned the counters and scrubbed the stove. I swept. I made coffee.

Scrooge was a grump. Marley arrived and left him warning. The Ghost of Christmas Past showed up. They toured Scrooge's life: childhood, being brought back home as a teen, the wonderful Christmas party at Fezziwig's, Scrooge's broken engagement, and his attempt to put out the spirit's light. He wakes in bed, heart pounding. He goes back to sleep.
-cK