20 April 1975

Siddhartha, an easy book to patronize, reflects my polarities of feeling: restless searching and the serene content. There is time”the interval between  the Maying Festival and moving to the farm.  Classes are finishing, the marking load is light.  And so the weekends present moments”awakening this morning, in the bath this afternoon”whose sequel is  not predetermined, moments demanding choice.

In these moments guilt arises, or discomfort, or despair or a driving horny restlessness.  And then something is generated.  Tonight, the transplant project.  Before starting, that terrible feeling of uselessness, inertia, nothing’s worth doing, the futility of effort”stasis, ennui, accidie.  It only lasts a few minutes but seems like hours.

And then the act: getting out of bed, out of the tub, just the next step, feet on the floor, out of the bewitched circle, that brings release and energy.  The project emerges: going on a hike, washing the floor, writing a letter, making a chair.  It starts with a flurry and highballs until completion.

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