On Sleep

In my final semester at McGill, I somehow managed to nearly completely invert my circadian rhythm, and in the process discovered the horrid but fascinating world of Canadian network late-night programming: reruns, test patterns, infomercials, and soft-core pornography (listed in order of entertainment value). Such was the misery of that period that, since then, I have been a model of regular sleep. I could doze through the apocolypse, I am convinced, as long as it took place between 10:30 pm and 6:30 am. Between those times, I can and will attempt to be social, but you may notice me becoming increasingly bug-eyed and incoherent. I have trouble forming complete sentences on less than 8 hours sleep. It's not pretty.

Somehow, this rigid but acceptable pattern has been thrown for a loop with the coming of spring. There just seems to be too much light--like a six-year-old, I wake up at five with my brain screaming, "It's day! I hear birds and joggers! Let's get on with it, we're missing stuff!!" My body answers, like a grouchy adult, that it does not wish to get up and jog or do anything, because the long and gorgeous evenings are prompting me to stay up long past my bedtime every night. Even if I'm only writing (I'm usually writing), I like to watch the protracted sunset out the window. It seems to go on for hours.

The above two paragraphs are really only to say that I am very tired, and am a poor candidate for polar expeditions. But it sure is lovely in the world, these days. Even when exhausted.

Put your weight against the door / Kick-drum on the basement floor
RR