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November 17, 2008
Look at this, I said to Q as he came back to bed. The two sleeping cats were entwined around each other, a dark heap of fur against the white sheets. As always, they had arranged themselves carefully, perpendicular to us, so that they took up half the king-sized bed. The part remaining to Q and me gives each of us about as much mattress width as we enjoyed in our cribs as babies.

Q gave the whole pile of cats a shove away from the middle of the bed. Ben quacked a quiet reproach and went back to sleep.

You could use that extra pillow as a barrier, Q told me, climbing back under the covers. Set it on your left side. Block them.

Yeah, I said. But it was too late. I was awake, and thoughts of things left undone had begun to stir. I would get up and do something about some of them.

This is so familiar: big ideas, great ideas. I am so good at ideas. Amazing possibilities appear in my mind full-blown: I see them completely, just as they will be when they are finished. They are irresistable. I am putty in their hands. It has always been this way.

But ideas don't appear full-blown in the real world. In the real world, ideas require execution. I experience this as a personal affront. I want the world to be like a printer, only three-dimensional: I send it the idea and it emerges in flesh, just as I imagined it. Why not? You can do it with an image on a piece of paper -- why not with a batch of seven hundred cookies?

I'll bet they're working on it right now. I can't wait.

Let there be light, God said, and there it was. And the six days unfolded: water and land, the sun and the moon, plants and animals. People. Out of God's imagination things came to be. However long a "day" really was, and however it happened, there it all was.

Was God as excited as I get? Unable to sleep, because of what is becoming?

That was what the seventh day was for. God rested, even from work that excited and delighted him. Even God.

Here ends the eMo. It is now 5.38 in the morning. I'm going back to bed for a bit.
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