The problem with insomnia...besides the obvious annoyances associated with it.

I woke up a couple of hours ago, unable to sleep, which is too bad, as I really need the sleep. I naturally did the least effective thing possible: I lay in bed, tossing this way, that way and the other way, disturbing the cat, slightly, and (miraculously), not disturbing Melanie at all. I don't think she has insomnia tonight. Finally I got up, thinking that I could get some writing done on a couple of projects.

Well, insomnia is either the cause of or the symptom of too many thoughts dashing around in my head, colliding with one another, releasing bolts of new ideas and so on. This does not translate well to trying to write, when one needs to focus with the intensity of a laser beam (lest one writes horrid metaphors like the last one). Sure, the idea-a-minute thing works if you are trying to dash out fiction a la Kerouac or the best moments of Henry Miller (which, to find, one must wade through so much unmitigated doo doo as to be barely worth the effort). However, trying to structure a more conventional piece in this condition is nearly impossible.

I am now faced with the old question: insomnia at 4:30...at what point do I throw in the towl (towell? towel? no matter what choice I make, it looks horribly wrong. A strange word, and I am writing in the dark and thus do not want to use a dictionary) and declare that I am up? When do I stop trying to sleep and make breakfast?

I am just glad that I get this very infrequently. Normally I sleep very well. If I had to put up with this on a regular basis, as a couple of friends of mine do, I would probably go nuts.

Laissez les bons temps rouller and all that.

Me? I am full of sanguinaccia, an Italian blood sausage made of pig's blood and heart, and kale. Tonight we feast on oxtail soup. And, of course, lots of accordions. Have fun, be safe.