Not writing. Looking at the river. Getting started each morning was monstrous, an almost impossible exercise of will, in which finally the will was never enough, and it had to be begun on faith. Last night, sleepless until three A.M., long and stupendously vivid scenes unfolded. Too tired to get up and write them down, she still couldn’t shut the projector off for the night. Got up and jotted down key words, to remind her. Staring at these key words now, she wondered what in heaven’s name they had been meant to unlock. Jerusalem. Jerusalem? Why? Gone. What had she meant by it? The postcard from Pique yesterday. No address. Mustn’t think of it. Morag didn’t want to put the hooks onto Pique, nor to have Pique at this point put the hooks onto her. But a somewhat more newsy letter would be appreciated. Idiotic. How many newsy letters had Morag written to Prin and Christie, after she left Manawaka? That was different. Oh, really? The long sweep of infrequently mown grass down to the river.
