Insomnia night ... I have no idea exactly why it is.
Perhaps it is the unseasonal warm wind, the failure to wriggle my toes enough,
the thought of being alone and how much longer I can bear it,
or my visions of recent hatched, matched and dispatched.
Maybe it is the building plans spinning in my head,
wondering how The Girl is going,
the aeroplane I'm getting on, to deliver a paper to a roomful of historians
(can you imagine a tougher crowd?)
or that this week my whole world shifted a bit
when a publisher said they'd take a punt on my book.
Perhaps it is just Bob's house. He was an insomniac.
About an hour ago, the trucks began coming in from Perth. When their gears begin shifting down to turn into the freight depot, I know it's going to be a while - of forklifts and reversing beeps and something that sounds like gas cylinders being thrown around inside a concrete shed. Bob told me once about a sleepless night. The trucks arrived and the forklifts began. He wandered down the hill in his dressing gown and dirty glasses and I'll bet his hair was doing that mad scientist thing. He asked them to keep the noise down as he was having trouble sleeping.
They stopped and stared at him. Those guys had been driving for five hours and probably had to do the return trip after they unloaded. They told him to fuck off.
A few years ago, instead of a screen and a qwerty, I would have curled up with my pen and my journal
as was my wont,
scrawled pages of black angst, then shut the covers ...
and now I'm blogging my insomnia.
Heh heh, sorry guys. Service will be resumed soon.
There's another truck. Now where is my tartan dressing gown and dirty glasses?