Monday, June 12, 2000

12:44 a.m. Last night was an example of how it can be too late to stay up. I was bbbabbling toward the end of that entry. I got up once to walk around the room a little bit because I wasn't thinking any more, but I didn't want to just leave it hanging, and when I sat down again my head was buzzing and it felt twice as big as it should be. And heavy.

And since we write our own personal rule books and constantly police our own actions, I decreed somewhere along the way that I should write a certain amount, by a certain time, and even though it's past midnight, I won't go to bed and pick up the thread in the morning. I did it once, as an experiment. It felt like cheating, so instead I sit with a big buzzing head and babble on.

2:29 a.m. The journal as doodle pad. Maybe it's time to change the rules. I'm the grown one here. I'm the one with my fingers on the keys. I'm the one in charge, and I say -- maybe just a little more tonight. Maybe I'll get my second wind.

Today was a very, very, very strange day. It was a Monday, of course, which does no one any good, but because I didn't get to bed until nearly five in the morning, I slept an extra hour and so everything seemed off kilter from the minute I finally got up again. People popping in, people delivering things, more things, more people. More phone calls than I could manage and then more people popping in.

We have some new furniture, and it's certainly worth a photo. The nice man brought it over and let us look at it in place before deciding, and once it was arranged, I knew it was round and right and so now the middle room, which is our living room and our TV room, but not our front room -- now it looks much, much better.

Photos to come.

I woke up around 7:30 this morning for a little while and the sun was so crisp and so fresh and so layered with promise and hope that I closed my eyes and fell back to sleep with more than the usual inevitable reluctance. It's the highest quality time, the cream from the top of the day, and maybe I can one day call it quits by 10 p.m. and let the excitement of the birds draw me into the day.

It's funny how it's a different, a grudging morning full of premature light when you've been up all night. If you don't sleep and lose yourself and let the day surprise you with itself, it doesn't feel right or sound right or look right. For each person, there seem to be times you're not supposed to be awake and territories you don't belong in.

Seven-thirty is currently one of those zones for me. I'm sure 2:45 a.m. is a no-no zone for somebody else. Hours actually seem to have qualities. Neither 4:00 hour is a good one for me; in fact I'm not a big fan of the 3:00 hour, darkside or brightside, either. I'm always in trouble at 3; it's always too late for something at 3. Five isn't that much better -- five has sharp edges associated with it. Cut-off points.

I like 8 and 9 a lot; and 1 is a rich, full, busy time. It's so odd to realize that it's equally true for the a.m. or the p.m. And think about how different our lives would be if we'd created 45-minute chunks instead of hours. Or seconds timed to the heartbeat of birds instead of cows.

I think I'm babbling again. I will go now -- it's almost 3 and it's late.