So I’m awake these mornings. It’s really, really odd. I even wake up at five to pee, instead of coming to at nine with an aching bladder. I think this is how human beings do it. In bed around eleven or twelve, up around seven or eight, right? Sometimes six-thirty? Is that how little sleep you get? “You” meaning normal people? I’ve never been normal, you see. I’ve always been an insomniac, so there’s always been a few hours of tossing and turning and thinking in there, then the sleep, so I never am refreshed because I always get waken up too early to catch up. Then I pick up the hours I miss on the weekend. Until I was medicated. Then I started sleeping for twelve hours.
Now I’m suddenly not. And I’m seeing the morning skies. So I can compare them to the noonday skies, the afternoon day skies, skies at dusk, twilight skies, and night skies.
I went running with Sparrow yesterday. The fog was out. It’s well documented how much I love fog. My bones were forged in fog. It is a part of my soul. It was out in abundance and low to the ground. It baptized us with its grace as we padded along through the Oakland hills. I felt like I was going to die. But I had the fog to protect and cleanse me. Tiny soothing acupuncture needles hitting my face recharged me, helped me forget about the budding Charlie horse, the mucus build-up in my throat, the rebellion rising up in my feet. Sparrow seemed to be doing fine. She runs often. I run once every five months. Yoga does not translate into running for me.
So the morning skies were low to the ground, cold, wet, embracing.
The day was a little humid, too, but warmer. It drove the friend I was with, Priscilla, crazy. She had to turn on the air conditioner as soon as she got in my car. Priscilla is particular and a bit of a princess. She is picky about food and temperature.
But the clouds! Oh the clouds. They were many and varied. Little ones, fat ones, streaky ones, streamy ones: it was a Seuss book of clouds. All running quickly from the dusk across a light blue sky. Gorgeous.
The dusk saw the fog come back in, but high this time, in a huge roll, like batting. It vomited over us impossibly quickly, blotting out all sunlight, making it mercifully gray again. Gray skies make me naturally sedated. It’s like a rub on the belly, or a pat on the back. I can’t help it. If you want me to calm down, put me in something soft and gray. A new hoodie. A freshly washed blanket. A coat of fog. It will tranquillize me, no doubt.
The night was purnge. Purnge is one of the two shades that certain streetlights can give off, that orangish-purple haze. The other is orple. Orple is more purple, purnge more orange. There is also the preen and greeple variety. I suppose it depends on the kind of gas they use. When there’s fog at night, the streetlights reflect off of the fog and it lights up. Kind of like Bladerunner. It looks very close and closed in and very industrial here with the high fog at night.
And I saw all of it. From beginning to end. All because I was awake. This is an interesting experiment indeed.