Climbing high into the sun


AND I’m up again. Blessed beast this insomnia is. It’s that magical time of year when my phone and my microwave are duking it out over who knows the current time. My phone wins of course but the point is this: with the exception of the watch I unearthed a few weeks ago, there is nothing in my home whose primary goal it is to tell time. My phone, cable box, radio and microwave serve as my clocks. I have two clock clocks that need batteries, both. And I’m not sure where they are. 

My apartment is in flux, partially painted, partially boxed up, entirely waiting for its next incarnation. I’ve been a packrat over the years, much like my father is; the difference is that he lives with a woman who will not tolerate this and will throw things away that he’ll never miss. My mum would be more than happy to do the same for me, I know, but it’s really up to me to get rid of my collection of matchbooks, defunct business cards, photos of babies I can no longer identify, mismatched hand towels, ill-fitting clothing, chewed apart dog toys (thank God I have a dog; otherwise that would be far more alarming).  I’m ready to make – and keep – my home more beautiful. I’m ready for so much. To paraphrase the recent words of a dear friend, I need to do it, not talk about it. I need to start getting things done and I will. Sleep will come back soon – it must – and then tomorrow (or later today, to be exact) I begin the beautiful newness of a life evaluated and one of which I’ve taken control. Too easy it’s been for me to let others take over and to live their ideas of me. Too often it’s failed. So off we go, into the wild blue yonder.

postscript: I just googled that song and learned that Charles Lindbergh found it mediocre. I’m with him, but too tired to search for another. 


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