“at night, at night… that’s when I get my bright ideas…” -Jonathon Richman
I love the morning. When I see her, I love her. But there are enough days when it’s only in her later hours that I am conscious at all.
Because I love the night too. It is at that time when the sun isn’t shining on me anymore, and I don’t have the protestant work ethic glaring down. I can rest-ish. I permit. At night, I permit.
An adult beverage perhaps, instead of tea.
Entirely too many hours just creating.
I permit… myself to ignore what the (not-so) smalls (anymore) want from me.
The morning whispers “Hooray for another day!” unless clouds and rain, then ‘hoorayforanotherday”. feeling it or not, wake. Happy. Awake may fade come 9 am, but still once the sheets and comforter are overcome, feet hit the ground… ready to roll.
Productive! showing love to The Smalls! tidying my space! Waiting for that caffeinated elixir of happiness! Getting on with the day!
But that doesn’t mean that i won’t take a nap at 1.
(delicious middle-age rebellion)
Or lollygag all day.
(even more sticking it to the man)
Or refuse to get dressed.
(giving the finger to all of western civilization)
Because every other day… wake early! (6 am bitches!) To do a job I love! (actually I do) AWAKE LISTEN ADULT and BE PRODUCTIVE (dammit).
Until once again it is Night.
And I unfurl into turpitude that is going inside me and creating whatever looks beautiful to me. with earth between my fingers, here I can make: beauty. listening to books. Subversive ideas. which slowly become me, under the glaring protestant work ethic sun.
and silence… so pulchritudinous. still.