Sleep is a giant waste of time. No two ways about it. If you're like me, you need at least four hours a night, with twice that once a week. Four hours is four pages of heavily-edited essay. Four hours is time for an oil change, a long email, learning a song on guitar, starting a novel, and writing a poem. Four hours is a precious handful of seconds - tiny little grains of time that slip through fingers like sand.
Do you cut back on sleep to squeeze something extra into most days? Me too. After a while, it's pretty hard to relax and turn off your brain. I spend my pre-sleep hour thinking about life, how I'm going to find time to write in the near future, life, work, books, life, cutting back on sleep, whether or not thinking about sleeping makes it hard to fall asleep, whether or not thinking about not thinking about sleep counts as thinking about sleep, and life. It's not exactly insomnia, but I envy people who can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
My friend, on the other hand, once told me that he just "stops thinking about stuff" and goes to sleep. Is this a common thing? How is it even possible to voluntarily stop thinking?
If it is, I would like to learn how to turn off my brain at will. That would be grand. I know I said earlier that four hours of sleep is a waste of time, and I stand by that, but if I'm going to waste time, I'm darn well going to waste it sleeping, and not staring at the ceiling listening to random creaking and snoring sounds.
On a somewhat relevant note, dryers and washing machines are the best.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Man in the Mickey Mouse Shirt
A lot of times, people let us down. Case in point: I think I've been disappointing anyone who reads my blog lately. And we know that the let-downs that everyone experiences from time to time are often much worse than that. So isn't it awesome when people (especially perfect strangers) exceed expectations?
Consider the man in the Mickey Mouse shirt. (I'll call him M.) He appeared one morning when I was weeding in the rain at my boss's office. It was a garbage job, and I was tired and sore and grumpy and the light was as darkness in my eyes. It was one of those days. I was savagely ripping horsetails and dandelions from the ground when I heard, "Hey! Have you seen my rabbit?" It was M., of course.
He was a short guy with a high tenor kind of voice, and dirty blue coveralls. His face was crinkled into a smile. Wispy brown hair topped him off. I figured he was anywhere from 50-60 years old. While I was looking at him with that look that irrationally angry people have when they're interrupted, he said, "Yeah, there's a rabbit that always hangs around in the weeds here. I like to watch him eat the dandelions." He said something pleasant about the hedges too.
I was crouching in a pile of mangled dandelions just then. It occured to me that the rabbit probably wouldn't show up again any time soon. I sought for an appropriate facial expression in lieu of something to say. M. smoked a cigarette for a bit. Eventually, he left.
Hours later, it'd stopped raining and I was cheered up. I was finished the most outrageously overgrown bits of the garden and was working on a resistant clump of grass when M. suprised me again. "Whoa! You're still here!" he grinned. "I thought you were gone and forgot your coat!" He pointed to my coat, which was draped over a rock. I smiled, but words failed me again. What does one say to that, except 'nope' ? Besides, now that his work coveralls were gone, his Mickey Mouse shirt was kind of distracting me. Not very many fifty-something mechanics wear Mickey Mouse shirts, do they?
He continued, "This all looks good. Really really good. 100% better," and my worries that he was grieving for his rabbit's habitat were put to rest. I said, "Thanks." He drove away in an old blue clunker. Mentally, I shook his hand for being a friendly old mechanic in a mickey mouse shirt. Props to him.
Consider the man in the Mickey Mouse shirt. (I'll call him M.) He appeared one morning when I was weeding in the rain at my boss's office. It was a garbage job, and I was tired and sore and grumpy and the light was as darkness in my eyes. It was one of those days. I was savagely ripping horsetails and dandelions from the ground when I heard, "Hey! Have you seen my rabbit?" It was M., of course.
He was a short guy with a high tenor kind of voice, and dirty blue coveralls. His face was crinkled into a smile. Wispy brown hair topped him off. I figured he was anywhere from 50-60 years old. While I was looking at him with that look that irrationally angry people have when they're interrupted, he said, "Yeah, there's a rabbit that always hangs around in the weeds here. I like to watch him eat the dandelions." He said something pleasant about the hedges too.
I was crouching in a pile of mangled dandelions just then. It occured to me that the rabbit probably wouldn't show up again any time soon. I sought for an appropriate facial expression in lieu of something to say. M. smoked a cigarette for a bit. Eventually, he left.
Hours later, it'd stopped raining and I was cheered up. I was finished the most outrageously overgrown bits of the garden and was working on a resistant clump of grass when M. suprised me again. "Whoa! You're still here!" he grinned. "I thought you were gone and forgot your coat!" He pointed to my coat, which was draped over a rock. I smiled, but words failed me again. What does one say to that, except 'nope' ? Besides, now that his work coveralls were gone, his Mickey Mouse shirt was kind of distracting me. Not very many fifty-something mechanics wear Mickey Mouse shirts, do they?
He continued, "This all looks good. Really really good. 100% better," and my worries that he was grieving for his rabbit's habitat were put to rest. I said, "Thanks." He drove away in an old blue clunker. Mentally, I shook his hand for being a friendly old mechanic in a mickey mouse shirt. Props to him.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Good Books, Anyone?
Well, it's summer now, which hopefully means more time for reading. But I went to Chapters the other day and couldn't decide what to buy. I ended up with two books: War and Peace and What Ho! The Best of P.G. Wodehouse. (Haven't started W&P but the Wodehouse anthology is hilarious and worth the read, if you like bumbling British aristocrats and competent butlers.) Anyone have any other good books that they'd recommend?
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Hang an intro. Here's my thesis: The Best Part of Work is being around birds.
Part of my summer job includes taking care of roughly forty chickens. In other words, there are thirty-seven Harry Houdinis at work (thirty-nine if you count the cows that keep busting out of their fences, but that's another story). Chains are as straw to them. High walls are as spacious arches. They could find their way out of Daedalus' labyrinth blindfolded and hobbled with leg irons. It's incredible. I attempt to keep them in an aging chicken coop with three layers of chicken wire, rotten netting and numerous baler twine patches. Somehow, one or two chickens always manage to get out. And of course, they instantly lose their heads and can't find their way back in. If they don't make it back before night time, they become hors d'oeuvres for the coyotes. It is a constant struggle for survival. They try to get themselves killed, and I try to save them.
I'm not terribly fond of chickens, but they are funny to watch. I resolved to write this post when I was collecting eggs today. Here is the situation: I am moving from left to right. I collect eggs from vacant nesting box 1. I move on to nesting box 2 just as Chicken A hops on to the ledge of the same nesting box. We have an awkward moment, and Chicken A, no doubt embarassed to be caught shirking her egg-sitting responsibilities, shuffles sideways to move in front of nesting box 3. I collect the eggs from nesting box 2. Chicken A has now figured out that something is wrong. She is not in front of the right nesting box, and she can't go back to brooding on her eggs. But when she sees me finishing up, she hastily dives into nesting box 3. Chicken A then discovers that nesting box 3 is already occupied by Chicken B. Chicken B makes a strangled noise - in pain, I think. Chicken A is now perched on top of her, anxiously checking to see if maybe it is Chicken B who has made the mistake and got in her nesting box accidentally and sat on her eggs. Chicken B's head is squashed down into her feathers. There are more strangled noises. Chicken A emerges when she realizes that no, it is definitely the wrong box, and I collect the eggs from under Chicken B. Chicken B is highly disgusted by the whole thing.
As I see it now, the above paragraph is a big chunk of text with too many As, Bs, Chickens and 1, 2, 3s in it, but it can't be helped. I was leading up to the sparrows, you see. They hang around the chicken coop because of the feed, but they spend most of their time chasing sweethearts or else in hot debate. Blows are frequently exchanged. But I don't want to spend much time on them, because there are swallows around too, you know. They fly like F-16s and poop like horses. When you think about how many insects they would have to eat to produce the messes they make on barn floors everywhere, it's kind of sickening...
Ah, and there are ungainly herons and nesting eagles and even pileated woodpeckers - and I could probably write volumes about the mallards that waddle around with their babies stumbling along behind them. Red-winged blackbirds and Canada geese come visiting too. And some birds I've never seen before (spotted towhees, I think, but it's hard to say.)
Conclusion: Birds are awesome.
If you wrote a book in which a bird was a character, what kind of bird would it be, and why?
Part of my summer job includes taking care of roughly forty chickens. In other words, there are thirty-seven Harry Houdinis at work (thirty-nine if you count the cows that keep busting out of their fences, but that's another story). Chains are as straw to them. High walls are as spacious arches. They could find their way out of Daedalus' labyrinth blindfolded and hobbled with leg irons. It's incredible. I attempt to keep them in an aging chicken coop with three layers of chicken wire, rotten netting and numerous baler twine patches. Somehow, one or two chickens always manage to get out. And of course, they instantly lose their heads and can't find their way back in. If they don't make it back before night time, they become hors d'oeuvres for the coyotes. It is a constant struggle for survival. They try to get themselves killed, and I try to save them.
I'm not terribly fond of chickens, but they are funny to watch. I resolved to write this post when I was collecting eggs today. Here is the situation: I am moving from left to right. I collect eggs from vacant nesting box 1. I move on to nesting box 2 just as Chicken A hops on to the ledge of the same nesting box. We have an awkward moment, and Chicken A, no doubt embarassed to be caught shirking her egg-sitting responsibilities, shuffles sideways to move in front of nesting box 3. I collect the eggs from nesting box 2. Chicken A has now figured out that something is wrong. She is not in front of the right nesting box, and she can't go back to brooding on her eggs. But when she sees me finishing up, she hastily dives into nesting box 3. Chicken A then discovers that nesting box 3 is already occupied by Chicken B. Chicken B makes a strangled noise - in pain, I think. Chicken A is now perched on top of her, anxiously checking to see if maybe it is Chicken B who has made the mistake and got in her nesting box accidentally and sat on her eggs. Chicken B's head is squashed down into her feathers. There are more strangled noises. Chicken A emerges when she realizes that no, it is definitely the wrong box, and I collect the eggs from under Chicken B. Chicken B is highly disgusted by the whole thing.
As I see it now, the above paragraph is a big chunk of text with too many As, Bs, Chickens and 1, 2, 3s in it, but it can't be helped. I was leading up to the sparrows, you see. They hang around the chicken coop because of the feed, but they spend most of their time chasing sweethearts or else in hot debate. Blows are frequently exchanged. But I don't want to spend much time on them, because there are swallows around too, you know. They fly like F-16s and poop like horses. When you think about how many insects they would have to eat to produce the messes they make on barn floors everywhere, it's kind of sickening...
Ah, and there are ungainly herons and nesting eagles and even pileated woodpeckers - and I could probably write volumes about the mallards that waddle around with their babies stumbling along behind them. Red-winged blackbirds and Canada geese come visiting too. And some birds I've never seen before (spotted towhees, I think, but it's hard to say.)
Conclusion: Birds are awesome.
If you wrote a book in which a bird was a character, what kind of bird would it be, and why?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)