Meanderings in the Night
Sometimes the insomnia hits at the most infuriating moments. Like now. I nodded for a few moments this evening, not nearly long enough, and now . . . now I am tinkering away at my keyboard, too idle and blocked to write aptly.
I long to drift off to sleep, but--aside from the insomnia--there is a dog hogging my part of the bed. Of course she is adorable, but she is a stinkin' bed hog none-the-less. A smaller stack of work, than I have seen in months, but still a formidable stack glares at me. Instead, my mind is too idle to function.
Hence, I write moronic meanderings at 12:30 in the morning. I flip through a French reader, I struggle with an Italian chapter, and I tinker with more Turkish. Je parle un peu languages, mais franciase est ma favori pour son rythme et de romance implicite de l'espirt et du coeur. My spelling sucks in all of them. Yet . . . yet, I can not focus. Apparently, there is a theme developing to my aimless digital meandering of the night via framed words of quasi literary merit. Somewhere in the mix I make a post-it note to ask Tanfer to pick me up some Turkish fiction, clearly in Turkish, to deliver to me in Rome. I need something creative, cheesy, and fun to keep my growing cadre of languages working and fresh.
Though, of course, I feel a bit of wandering these days. Pour quoi? Je ne sais pas. I do know that I am frustrated and angstful with myself for my lack of productive words on a page . . . I long to relax, for several days, with endless words in a book and perhaps a bottle of wine. I long to sleep--peacefully--through the night. A night of slumber, under a sky with stars behind the blackness and the rhythms of the city to soothe my weary mind and overworked soul. Of course, all those flowery words really mean is I just want to sleep, finish the pile, and the play for a handful of days. Such simplistic and childish thoughts, yet few adults have not had them cross their minds.
Though, the bemoaning of lack of time and sleep is a symptom of my life. In many ways, it already denotes markers of success and senses of my own personal fortitude. In the end, I go back to the list of Italian vocabulary to tinker some more at a complex and and artful language with connotations of romance nearly as thick as those of French.
I long to drift off to sleep, but--aside from the insomnia--there is a dog hogging my part of the bed. Of course she is adorable, but she is a stinkin' bed hog none-the-less. A smaller stack of work, than I have seen in months, but still a formidable stack glares at me. Instead, my mind is too idle to function.
Hence, I write moronic meanderings at 12:30 in the morning. I flip through a French reader, I struggle with an Italian chapter, and I tinker with more Turkish. Je parle un peu languages, mais franciase est ma favori pour son rythme et de romance implicite de l'espirt et du coeur. My spelling sucks in all of them. Yet . . . yet, I can not focus. Apparently, there is a theme developing to my aimless digital meandering of the night via framed words of quasi literary merit. Somewhere in the mix I make a post-it note to ask Tanfer to pick me up some Turkish fiction, clearly in Turkish, to deliver to me in Rome. I need something creative, cheesy, and fun to keep my growing cadre of languages working and fresh.
Though, of course, I feel a bit of wandering these days. Pour quoi? Je ne sais pas. I do know that I am frustrated and angstful with myself for my lack of productive words on a page . . . I long to relax, for several days, with endless words in a book and perhaps a bottle of wine. I long to sleep--peacefully--through the night. A night of slumber, under a sky with stars behind the blackness and the rhythms of the city to soothe my weary mind and overworked soul. Of course, all those flowery words really mean is I just want to sleep, finish the pile, and the play for a handful of days. Such simplistic and childish thoughts, yet few adults have not had them cross their minds.
Though, the bemoaning of lack of time and sleep is a symptom of my life. In many ways, it already denotes markers of success and senses of my own personal fortitude. In the end, I go back to the list of Italian vocabulary to tinker some more at a complex and and artful language with connotations of romance nearly as thick as those of French.
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