I can't sleep…
Go wreck yourself once more against the day
and wash up like a bottle on the shore,
lucidity and salt in all you say.
— David Mason, from “Another Thing,” Sea Salt, Poems of a Decade: 2004-2014
Notes: Poem via The Vale of Soulmaking. Photo: (via Your Eyes Blaze Out)
The light wavers;
perhaps the person holding it is tired.
The steps slow.
The rush seems to be over.
– Ann Napolitano, Dear Edward: A Novel (The Dial Press, January 6, 2020)
Notes:
Jenny Offill describes her mood…”she’s tired all the time now…she can feel how slow she is walking, as if the air itself is something to be reckoned with.” I read the passage a week ago. And Mind keeps flipping it back.
Sleep app congratulates me this morning on seven consecutive days of hitting sleep targets. Grooving a routine. And it’s working. I’m sleeping.
But, tired all the time.
Lower Manhattan this morning.
40+ F, but don’t get caught out without a coat. Frigid winds blow through the tunnels between the hulking skyscrapers.
Colleagues take the subway to a client meeting: It’s only two stops!
I let them go. I need to walk. Shoulder stiff. Neck aches. Need to be alone.
A lifetime, swift walker. But not lately. Like a glider banking energy, I’m waiting for a tail wind, or even a gust.
Not my photo above, I couldn’t muster up my own shot. I pause to watch the tourists take their shots with the Bull. In all the years, this is the first time you’ve stopped (paused) to admire him. You are a beaut Mr. Bull.
Bullfighter or the Bull? Red cape, the muleta. God Save the Bull.
Three minutes to destination.
I take a take breath and step into the building.
Game time.
Photo: Alexander Nilssen, Bull of Wall Street
