Of A Saturday Morning

I woke up at seven and felt like hell. I had done nothing to account for this the night before- as is my natural inclination, I had stayed in, and did nothing more outgoing than participate in a brainstorming session for a film script. I guess that I must have spoken my contributions too volubly, for  my throat felt as if it had been lost at sea and washed ashore to be found by the men of a fishing village. That is to say that my throat was sore and that I am uncomfortably close to being a kindred spirit to George Will in temperament. I got up, went to the bathroom, got a drink of water to wash down an ibuprofen tablet with and got back into bed.

I slept fitfully for the next hour, at which time I awoke again and still felt like hell. The train was leaving the station on the reason I had gotten up at seven. I ruefully watched it go and hoped nothing awful would come of my absence. An alternative plan for the day had been superseded by this one, and I effectively wrote it off as well. There was just not enough water out there to pacify my restive throat. With it still raging and my stomach waterlogged, I returned to bed.

I woke up a third time at eleven and still felt like hell. I decided that there was nothing further to be gained in healing my discomfort by staying in bed, and indeed my morale would begin to suffer at a rate far more rapid than any physical recovery I had made to that point. While I was not about to commit to starting the day by showering, shaving, putting in my contacts and getting dressed, I was done sleeping, so I put on my glasses and made coffee. The coffee helped. To have had some at the outset would have been against my better judgement, but might have made all the difference. So end many revolts against one's stimulant masters.

Such experiences are fantastic grist for the mill if one endeavors to be a writer, and I am glad that I have not had to engage in expensive debauchery in order to facilitate that downward swing that turns outgoing, idle writer into melancholy, productive writer. I am gifted in that it happens with little such investment or forethought. Probably the less of either there is, then the better or at least more prodigious the writing output will be. God knows how much I care for my friends and my activities, as both take me out of my head where my thoughts can do me harm, but then I am removed from my creating apparatus as well. I don't pretend it to be anything special, but it's mine.