Once upon a time, I’d hit the sack around when most people left home for work. I wasn’t a night shifter the way ordinary people were. I was a performer and rarely got home before sunrise. Sets would end, and I might head to an after-hours party to listen to jazz or another folksinger play. It was part of a daily sojourn through a lifestyle most people will never understand. Come to think of it, I’m somewhat fuzzy on the details, too; that was a long, weary time ago.
Eventually, I decided that accepting trinkets exchangeable for more food and housing was a better life plan than spending all my time in coffeehouses and clubs. So an adjusted AM time, around seven, is my favorite time to arise, have coffee, cogitate my verititabilities, plan the day, and scribble a post.
My nineteen-year-old self would view me as some grey-haired ancestor, a fate to be avoided, a terminally dull creature, not hip, while I look back on a life full of chapters and see him: a rough but promising beginning.
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