Ages ago when people were ruled by the real sun instead of a mechanical sun, people rose with the sun, and retired with the sun. Summertime was production time, the nights were short and the day was long. Wintertime was resting time, the nights were long and the days were mercifully short.
Some linguists became curious about the phrase “between the sleeps” by 16th and 17th Century writers, and rediscovered the obvious. Babies tiny tummies hold a maximum of four hours fuel, and that mommies have been getting up in the morning watches to refuel them since the beginning of time. The main problem is the extra two hour sandwich between the two sleeps that stretches the bed time from eight hours to ten hours, cuts into precious daylight.
But hey! I am retired. Why should I conform to society’s clock? I am discovering a productive time of writing when I arise for that two hours in the night watches. If it was good enough for King David, it is good enough for me.
The rains have rolled away, leaving high thin clouds and drying breezes rustle the leaves. I miss the rains already. I remember reading when I was a child about the digging of the Suez Canal. Many of the native workers had never been around plumbing and had no concept how it worked. In the construction towns, people would leave the faucet running for fear that the water would stop permanently. I am like that with the rains. When they go, I start asking if this is the beginning of a sixth year of drought?
So today’s agenda. See if I can upgrade Snooks computer so she can load the latest edition of PhotoShop™ on it. Move the poorly running cassock air filter into my studio. Install new showerheads in the master bath. Meditate on a new character in a novel I am writing. I think I love her too much and will have to kill her off. Dead.
All in all, a day of promise.