The Unswung Bat

Sunday, September 24, 2006
Sleep is a perverse dictator. I stayed up till 2 a.m. last night -- which is about my median bedtime. I woke up at 9 a.m. and thought about going back to sleep, but uncharacteristically decided to get up. And felt good, though tired. And after a shower I wasn't so sleepy. In fact, I apparently woke up so well that now, at 11 p.m., I'm not tired at all. Why this be I cannot begin to guess, beyond the foregone conclusion that sleep is a perverse dictator. I should be thankful it hasn't had me thrown in a lobster tank to be drowned and torn apart by crustaceans, or sentenced me to the boats.

Oh well. I did something today, which makes the day okay. Yay day. There are other things, that is, I feel like there's room left here and I should be saying other things. But instead what I'm getting is that feeling that detects the end of a phone conversation, when you run out of things to talk about from a distance and need to either meet in person or go do something else. Not sleeping, in this case.


And I am still in the kitchen. And. But I remember -- or am I here, remembering the kitchen? -- scuffing the pavement under skyscraper nightlights. Boxes of star. Whichever. It is as though the sidewalk tile sucks my foot down each time I raise it. The ache in my heels is dull and doesn't end. It makes me tired.

But I remember, for a moment like the water on the rock, another time, when it took an effort to keep the rubber of my shoes on the ground. Avoid turning off into an alley and releasing the concentration that kept me held, coming unglued from earth, and revealing myself for what. I.

Am in. Kitchen. Flying through the shivering empty sky.


Cut short. Too bad.

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