Or a good night's sleep in this case.
My head, or body, (but most definitely not I,) got stuck in a weird pattern, letting me sleep between four and five hours every night with a long break in the middle, for the past three weeks. Exercise would have been good, but sun/heat and that recurring hip problem left me wondering what the heck I could have done. (And just how on earth do my left and right feet manage to get inflamed when I'm taking things this easy?) Then we had a couple of cooler, overcast days and Wednesday I crashed and slept, slept and slept, and Wednesday night I slept right through until the alarm went off.
Looking back, it could have been a curious physiology experiment, akin to poets and painters working on acid. Except not getting enough sleep just doesn't sound glamorous, so I shall put off becoming the first Tripping Weaver. Unless I mean my usual manner of tripping.
Depression and insomnia go hand in hand and I knew this exhaustion felt different from depressive lethargy; it was more physical, and I was too tired for guilt.
But I've been compensated because I read some; mostly Philip Roth, (hate all the sex in his fiction but love his evocation of times and places; find his non-fiction a bit heavy but I'm staying with them,) but also a short Elena Farrante, an Oliver Sacks, and now Diana Athill; not bad for a sluggish, slothy reader. And while washing dishes or cooking, I've been listening to biographical clips on this website. (Desmond Morris was most entertaining.)
A couple of days ago multiple friends posted this clip from Doctor Who's Vincent episode, which I hadn't seen; it's a nice, romantic view of a man I'm convinced was diabolically rude, drunk, and self-absorbed, and yet I missed him. After my random reading spree, I shall return to reading about him.
Christmas warp. Then Skye with Mom later. I lost the phone line for most of yesterday, which was soothing and relaxing after the first 20 minutes.
I'll mention one book for those who may be interested. While his aging father was dying of a brain tumor, Philip Roth wrote what was happening, (not exactly a journal, though I don't know if he intended to publish as he wrote,) which became "Patrimony: A True Story". It's not as complicated as his other non-fiction, and I so wished I had read it before my last visit with Dad two years ago.
Right. Normal operation resumes now.