There is something about 2 am.
It is oh so simply silent in the most seductive kind of way.
You just want to scream into it – deep, long bellows full of excitement about the preciseness of the moment.
– – – – –
The past few weeks have been so chalk(chock?)-full of work that I haven’t had any time to play or eat or sleep or be anything but a “Hello, sir/ma’am/guys, can I get you a drink to start?” and a “Take care now, have a nice evening” (I always feel like adding “y’hear?!” at the end of the last one, but then I realize I’m not Dorothy or Donna Reed, and keep my clam shut).
Men are pigs, and mice.
I’m still reading Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I know I’m not the first one to say this, but holy crap does that guy really love his names. I mean, Jose Arcardio, Jose Aureliano are like 5 people EACH. And Remedios. Oy. Oy oy oy. It’s like how Toni Morrisson loves bringing meanings into names like “Milkman” and “Pilate”, Marquez loves the emphasis on character within generations of people. People with name A have trait 1 and people with name B have trait 2, and that’s the fuckin’ end of it.
I wonder if that reverses. The Segundo’s are sure to throw it off track. I also love the flower petal rain. All the surrealism makes my head change shape.
I’m going to bed now.
It’s not time yet.