Both yesterday and today I’ve been unusually tired. I didn’t get much sleep Saturday night. I wanted to do some writing and reading on the train, but after I had settled in I couldn’t stay awake. Even sitting up in an uncomfortable position, I fell soundly asleep. This morning after breakfast I fell asleep, and then again this afternoon after I had gone for a walk and eaten a portobello mushroom and mozzarella sandwich at Café Verde. Even Love Buzz coffee and Earl Grey tea couldn’t keep me conscious. I hope I don’t sleep away my time here. The room, The Maine Woods, is comfortable, and the weather has been what my Pennsylvanian parents called “good sleeping weather.” My stressed body has noticed.
At Borders, of all places, I found four-color Camel pencils from Japan, as well as “Be Goody” lead pencils, also from Japan. The latter have an eraser end, but no ferrule. It’s an interesting and sleek design, and they write fairly smoothly and darkly, too.
At Motte and Bailey, I found The Complete Poetry of Richard Crashaw published in 1970, clearly never cracked open and therefore read; a similarly pristine copy of Gondal’s Queen: A Novel in Verse by Emily Jane Brontë published in 1977 by the University of Texas Press; and an unloved library edition of The Oxford Book of Children’s Verse published in 1973, complete with the stamped name, address, and phone number of a previous owner.
After lunch (grilled portobello and mozzarella sandwich at Café Verde), a brief stop at People’s Food Co-op, the haul back, and some reading and writing on the balcony, I slept and dreamed that, as I was trying to get up and get off a bus, I noticed some of my favorite pencils missing from my case. I’m under the impression that I held the bus and made a fool of myself by getting down awkwardly to look under the seats, which I sensed didn’t endear me to my seat mate or other passengers. Then I finally got off the bus and found myself isolated on a quiet country road. The next thing I remember, someone had asked about the long-delayed development brochure, and the responsible person had a shouting fit and nervous breakdown over it.
After eating A.’s pizza, we watched Sweet Land, which, aside from being a love story, represents the foibles and the strengths of a small community, and how one can overcome the other. The scenes in set in 1968 were very evocative for me; Inge’s hair and glasses reminded me very much of a friend of my mother’s who happened to be not of German ancestry, but Norwegian. I do not know if her coffee was “too black.”
After I came back, I couldn’t sleep for a long time, but I also couldn’t stay quite awake, either. I am what my parents would call a “good tired.” Perhaps I should simply give into it and enjoy it when I can, even if it is during the day.