As I peck this out, we are teetering on the precipice of the transition to (or is it from?) Daylight Savings Time. In just a few short hours, at 2am, folks in most parts of America will find their lives rudely shoved forward one hour. To be fair, many of them will not initially notice this jacking with the universe because they are asleep or having sex or drunk, having unwisely uncorked that second bottle of wine during a moment of self-perceived invincibility caused by the consumption of the first bottle.
A certain percentage of couples will be doing all three, because after a few decades of coital machinations with the same person, it’s not unusual for one or both of the partners to drift off during drunken slap and tickle. It just happens. If any of you young whippersnappers out there, with your multiple rounds of rabbit-breeding in one afternoon, think that this will never happen to you, think again. There will come a point in your life when you have sex on the installment plan, trust. Accept it now and grow with the knowledge.
I’ll still be awake. I’m always awake at 2am. It’s just what I do, the result of the synaptic wiring in my brain that makes me a Night Owl. My creativity (if I may be bold enough to call it that) and focus peak in the late and then wee hours. I can be dead tired at 9pm, barely able to keep my eyes open as we slog our way through another episode of yet another do-it-yourself home-improvement program. (You, too, can transform your tired lavatory into a Palace of Recycling if only you have enough gumption. And a team of people to do the actual work for you whilst the camera records you picking out vintage backsplash tiles at Only Rich People Can Afford to Shop Here & Sons.)
But once the last newscast for the evening is unspooling, with vapid spokesmodels sporting unnaturally-gleaming teeth and reading stories (that they did not write) from a teleprompter manufactured in another country, my personal algorithms shift. As Vanna and Vance and their teeth wrap up the final and inevitable reports of Trump doing yet another dumbass thing that has every decent person in the world shaking their heads in disgust, the creaky cogs of my windmill activate.
I fire up my laptop and lose myself in a place where my fiddling with words lessens the impact of the dumbasses and the vapid and maybe, just maybe, those words will give ephemeral comfort to someone else in the quiet night. I go for the laughs here at Bonnywood, most often, but every story I write is grounded in the belief that honest depictions of our varied messiness is so much better than the dishonest vindictiveness of those who refuse to understand that everything is not all about them.
So, yes, I will notice the quiet leap of time in the dark night, about an hour from now, another tick in the journey. I had originally intended to transition this opening to an absurd list of ten odd things that happened to me today. (Teaser: We attended a Neighborhood Association meeting earlier this evening wherein they served the largest hot dogs I have ever seen in my entire life. My mind boggled at how this came to be, especially when an unlucky soul dropped one of said dogs and the foundation of the meeting hall shifted.) But now I feel that intention would sully things a bit. I went somewhere that I didn’t expect when I first opened the Word document, one of the joys of having Night Owl DNA, and I’d rather end my thoughts… right… here.