Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

I made my last blogathon post at 8:01 this morning, and even though I was so tired I could barely hold myself upright to do it, as soon as I clicked “publish” in my admin interface, I had an adrenaline rush to my oversore brain and had to stay awake a bit longer. Then the dogs needed to go out, and then I had to take an elimination break, and so, by the time I got to sleep it was nearly nine.

I was up at 2 anyway, and I rambled around the house distractedly for a while, trying to figure out what I was doing. Finally I decided a swim was in order, and then I had to find the pump, which for some reason I keep calling a generator today, as if I don’t know the difference, but I DO, I swear, and then I had to inflate my new pool chair/float/thing because what I really wanted was just to float around not to actually swim.

Finally I was floating and Cleo wasn’t barking at the pool or the birds, but I quickly grew restless, so I came back inside and showered, and suddenly it was four and I was pushing Fuzzy into the shower. “We’re leaving for my workshop at 5:15,” I told him, “and I need to get something to drink with caffeine from Starbucks.” Poor bewildered Fuzzy didn’t think to question my declaration of our estimated departure time, which was fifteen minutes later than we NEEDED to leave, coffee or not, and when my brain finally engaged it was 5:20. But I had my chai.

Note: It is possible to drive from South Grand Prairie to the West End of downtown Dallas in exactly 17 minutes. On a Sunday evening. If you’re damned lucky. And there are no accidents or stupid people.

I missed about twenty minutes of workshop, arriving just as the warm up was concluding. S said she was surprised I was awake, and truly, I don’t think I was. I don’t think I am now. I think this whole day has been a case of semi-lucid dreaming because my brain is still at the (Buffy-esque) fire-bad tree-pretty stage of cognizance. (In my defense, I called everyone whose cell # I’d pulled from the forum, and of course they were all off.)

For once my hesitation in workshop was not fear but exhaustion. On the other hand, I wasn’t nervous at all, because the editor/censor part of my brain was still comatose. However, skipping sleep is NOT a recommended technique for dealing with terror. Even if it works.

I was craving a cheeseburger, and had earned it, damnit, by blogging all night, and so Fuzzy met me at Fridays and we had dinner before heading home, where I crawled back into bed, and have been kind of vegging, unable to really stay awake and do anything that requires any kind of participation (also I fell asleep, sort of, while watching Monk, and have no idea what happened) , and unwilling to concede that the tiredness has won, and I have to surrender to sleep.

I’m feeling all inspired and writey because even when I suck (which is usually) I always feel inspired and writey after workshop, but I know I need to rest. Sometimes I guess I do channel my inner four-year-old, the stubborn little girl in feet-in pajamas who never liked to stay in bed.

I have tomorrow off, at least, and the maids are coming, and then maybe I’ll have the urge to write and won’t have lost the idea that’s germinating in my brain even now.

Maybe.