mmmdcccxxxix

Dozed and Confused

Essentially, the middle of the
night is the top of the morning.

Also, sleeping habits are very
genetic—unfortunately. They

can also be downright contagious.
I can write, however, at any hour,

when I’m not currently working
a job that (oh, so importantly)

pays the rent. So, like my 80-
year old mother (who remains

a woman who seems to rarely
ever sleep, unless in her chair

while watching the television
at whatever hour of the day),

without the structure of a paid
nine to five or so gig, I become,

despondently, a creature of the
night. Who else happens to be

spry, alert, and on the job, no
less, at these dwindling or bur

geoning hours (depending on
how you look at them)? My

siblings, who are both graveyard
shift nurses. One is an emergency

room nurse. Talk about taking
the whole nocturnal thing too

seriously. Me, I’m a morning
person. And as noted above,

morning is also the middle of
the night, by definition, but

when I say I’m a morning
person, that means that I

prefer the early hours after
I’ve had a night of sleep,

of some sleep, at any rate.
And while I can write at any

hour of the day, I mean, if
one were to call being a poet

my profession, heck, there is
no hour that it cannot be done

and with some ease (but, yes,
always with a modicum of dis

cipline, sure). So here I am,
stuck awake without having

yet slept, at eight past four in the
morning, putting words in some

silly order on a screen. To feel
feel like I’m being productive,

or perhaps just because that’s
what I do. Pacific Time, of

course. Because that is the time
zone in which I live. As if that even

matters. Since it’s always morning
somewhere, right? But, while that’s

related, like genetics, I suppose,
that is a whole different subject.