Sleep is where I'm a viking. I like that. It's better than dreaming about work and mysteriously appearing and disappearing clothes. But, I digress.
I should be asleep. I should be acclimated to my new diurnal schedule. But, obviously, I'm not. It's almost 4 in the morning. It's windy outside and the maple's limbs are beating the roof, the bunches of wind chimes are cacophonous and awful. The cat is tearing through the house like he's been dosed with PCP doing his usual circuit of kitchen, living room, bathroom, reverse, repeat. When he's not doing that he's insisting he sleep on my chest with his face in mine. He needs to go on a diet.
I went to a reading last night by my friend and former teacher Irene. She was, as usual, grand. A nice mix of older poems, some short short essays which she's been reading for a series on the local public radio stations, and some new poems. One of the essays and the final poem brought tears to my eyes. I was gut punched. They're magnificent. We're planning a visit in the next couple of weeks. I'm glad, it's always a good afternoon. Even though she doesn't live far, maybe 40 minutes away, I feel like I never see her often enough.