I hate waking up at 5:30 am in winter, and I just go back to bed after taking care of Mr. Bladders urgent request. The only problem is then I sleep ‘til eight. I have tried to live out my retirement ruled by the sun rather than the ticktocker, but I just can’t make myself go to bed at seven in the evening. A century or so back, people lived by the sun, and I wanted to do that, but old habits die hard.
Writers and poets often found their most creative time was that time between the sleeps in winter, when you awoke after five or six hours of sleep, but it was still the middle of the night according to the clock. They would work for an hour or so, then retire again until sunup.
But when I wrote at those hours, the writings were unbelievably morose and dark and people offered to call suicide prevention on my behalf. King David wrote his psalms at that time, and a number of them were glum, so in that I was in good company. But I am neither a prophet or a King, so it is better that such thoughts remain undisturbed in the primal ooze of my subconsciousness. So, the ticktocker is back to ruling my days and nights. Bed at 9, rise at 5, piddle and sleep ‘til 8. Hate it.
Hillbilly corn on the puck today. Really want to get the field mowed down for winter. I don’t like having that much dry stuff around the house, though wild fires aren’t that common in mid-winter here. And waffles today. Not feeling the joy today, so will drink two cups before even starting. On my way to the second cup.