Nocturnality

I know I've mentioned this many times, but I don't think I fully explained its depth.

I do almost nothing during the day. Vampirism is not much of a stretch, except for the whole "blood" thing. It's like a reverse-Cinderella thing I have going on here, and, like I'm tired of explaining, it's not symptomatic of depression, like being unemployed and aimless. No, it's pathological. For some reason, I'm much more active in the wee hours of the morning. After midnight, I become shockingly productive. This is when I do my writing, which mostly helps me maintain my sanity. I wonder if William Blake, hermetic as he was, did most of his best work at night. Many older writers talk about working in the morning. If I did this, however, I'd have to switch to a DaVinci-esque sleep schedule, which would probably be disastrous.

I've read interviews with Ernest Hemingway, for instance, in which he says that he would allot a few hours each morning that he would dedicate only to writing. (All right, naysayers, mock me if you will, but I like Hemingway. Except "The Old Man and The Sea," which I cannot stand, for its allegorical religious bent. Anywho, I like "For Whom The Bell Tolls" and especially "The Sun Also Rises," so kill me.) For me, when the calendar turns over at midnight, I spring into action. Between the hours of 12 and 4, usually, I'll write a bit, and maybe read if I'm not writing too strenuously. Sometime between 4 and 5, I'll pack it in and decide to try to sleep.

This has its own difficulties, especially now that I made a thoughtful decision to stay away from my Chicago apartment in Lakeview. The building there has a large foyer area with a stone staircase with nary a railing but for the two on the sides. Everything's all right until you reach the top of the staircase, where there are about two feet between the railing and the inner door. Each time I would slide toward the handle, I would have flashing thoughts of Meryl Streep falling down the staircase in "Death Becomes Her," or, later in the same movie, she and Goldie Hawn tumbled down the stone stairs outside the church. In the first instance, there was a broken neck, and in the second, there were shattered fragments of their respective bodies strewn along the steps. But I digress...

It's extremely difficult to fall asleep with birds chirping incessantly outside my bedroom. And to make matters worse, I have aggravated heartburn from lying down all day. Remaining supine is one of the ways I have to combat vertigo and consequent nausea--both MS symptoms that I have.

So, alas, this is one of many reasons why I'm glad that I can now move into a new apartment in Logan Square. (I'm told it's nice.)

R