Insomnia

All over the world people can’t sleep.
In different times zones they’re lying awake
Bodies still, minds trudging along…
some are too cold, some too hot…
Some under bridges…
some hungry, some in pain…
Some get up
Others stay in bed
They eat oreos, or drink wine
Or both
Many read…
Some check their email
They try sleep tapes, hypnosis, drugs
They listen to their clocks tick…
hoping to catch a ride on the steady sleep breath of the other
to be carried like a seed on the body of one who is able.
Right now in Japan dawn is coming, and everyone who’s been up all night is relieved;
they can stop trying In Guatemala though the insomniacs are just getting started
and have the whole night ahead of them.
It’s like a wave at the baseball stadium,
hands around the world.
So here’s a prayer for the wakeful
The souls who can’t rest
as you lie with your eyes open
or closed
May something comfort you—a mockingbird, a breeze,
the smell of crushed mint
rain on the roof,
Chopin’s Nocturnes
your child’s birth
a kiss,
or even me—in my chilly kitchen
with my coat on—thinking of you

~Ellen Bass, from “Insomnia” in Mules of Love 


Photo: “Insomnia” by Alice Rose Photography. Poem, thank you Beth @ Alive on All Channels)

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call (Let’s Go!)

 


Notes:

  • Rachel’s Sully visiting for the weekend.  (Thank you Eric for the video)

110 times, like in a row?

Noah Kalina: “I photographed the view from my bedroom 110 times between October 2020 – June 2021 for the @nytimes Check out ten of them in the Arts & Leisure section today.”

 

Walking. With Sun Rising in the West.

4:35 a.m. Cove Island Park morning walk. 445 consecutive days. Like in a row. This train just keeps rollin’.

If there is a Heaven (and God, I hope so) it would be here, not in La Jolla, right here.

63° F. Low humidity. Gentle breeze at 5 mph off Long Island Sound.  And no Humans (yet).

Summer breeze makes me feel fine…blowin’ through the jasmine in my mind.  Go ahead, I know you want to. Lip sync it. I’ll wait for you.

It’s inevitable. When you trudge around in semi-darkness (aka daybreak), that sh*t will happen.

Circa 1 year ago, left foot plummeted down a 18” hole. It’s flat earth, and then there’s a Hole, out of nowhere. Down I go. Hyperventilating, thinking this Hole, was refuge for a wolverine, or a rabid raccoon.  I yank my foot out, rocks scrape knee, calf, leg —F*ckin’ H*ll.   Continue reading “Walking. With Sun Rising in the West.”

T.G.I.F.


Scarfolk Council