I love the first spring night each year when I can sleep with the bedroom windows open and the down comforters on the bed and the air is fresh and cool and moist but almost too chilly.
Of course when I can sleep is the operative phrase. Last night it simply wouldn't happen. Sleep was a vague glinty outline in the full-length mirror, a whisper of the curtains in a steady breeze, the restless sussurating of the fish tank filter. Sleep was my wife soundly breathing and occasionally kicking the blankets as I lay watching shadows move gradually across the ceiling. Sleep was all about but I could apprehend her not.
I gave up trying around 4:30am and channel-surfed infomercials for a while; they've really deteriorated since my last bout ineffectually wrestling Hypnos. Yoga Booty Ballet? Get the fuck out of town. I want to punch those people. Eric Estrada tried to lure me into buying land in Florida for ten minutes, and Kirk Cameron and some rude Aussie bastard force-fed Revelations to passers-by on an LA street corner. At least that was entertaining for a half hour. I imagined Kirk trying to pull that shit on me on a dark street one night and had a good laugh.
Imagine Arabic class at 8am after 24 hours with no sleep. Then imagine trying to learn a plural system more erratic than any I've encountered before in such a state. Some nouns change their vowels in a haphazard way to form plurals, others take a variety of endings depending on an astrological chart, a third group shifts form based on gender. I was in hell. After class I went for a four-mile run, tried to nap before work, failed, and then began drinking coffee. We'll see what tonight holds.
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