I am not made for mornings.
Over the last few weeks I’ve been up before seven, often having bedded down after two. Mary’s adapting well enough. My eyes are taking extra fractions of a second to focus.
I never have much energy, save for the hours just after the sun has gone down. From there I try to get done all I wish I had during the day, hence the two a.m. bedtimes.
I wasn’t wrong in my last post, I did write something on friday. I’d wanted to say something meaningful about race relations ten years after september 11th, but my mind’s too thick. There was no precision to the piece and it seemed tasteless rather than poignant. I kept to myself, something to store until I’ve had some sleep to clean the gears.
Friday, Mary and I had our date night and I spent the day doing chores. What time we had to write was ended abruptly by the coffee shop’s closure. With the dousing of their lights went the wifi. We were in Lancaster, the supposed half-way point to Longwood Gardens. Had either of us looked at the map more carefully we’d’ve realized we still had an hour to drive and would have planned differently. We didn’t notice until we’d spent a few hours in Lancaster, and had grown both tired and weary from it.
I hate Lancaster. I hate its culture. What’s worse is that it generally has more interesting things than Harrisburg, but they’re spoiled by the local attitude. The city’s spirit is an amalgamation of Philadelphia, it’s hipsters, its clutter and disorder, its myriad of youthful vigor devoid of self-consciousness, and Harrisburg on a farm show weekend. Small-mindedness, white bravado, countrified entitlement. The two sets don’t make for a settled whole and nothing like a pleasant one. It’s the sort of place one visits to do something specific, then leaves.
Even Philly with its piss stained streets manages more incidental charm than the best corners of Lancaster.
Saturday, Mary had her first introduction to kenjitsu by way of a six hour bokken class we took with Hamilton Sensei at the Kung Fu center. My sword felt lighter than it had last year, I think my hands are becoming more comfortable with cutting weapons.
Sunday, monday, are smears. Not really blurs, that denotes action, and I don’t think I’ve moved much. I’m not story much information, or if I am, I won’t have access to it until I’ve reordered my skull. It still amazes me to think of how quickly one falls apart when he is without sleep. As surely as water or food, sleep is a necessity, but because we can push it aside and force it to suit our schedules, we forget its exact importance.
This morning I sat for three hours at a car shop while the remaining car got its pre-southern-trek service. The waiting room had wifi, but it was mostly useless, disconnecting frequently and slow when it was stable. Little writing done then.
Tomorrow, North Carolina.