Any regular reader knows that I’m a night owl. I really do think it’s genetic. Rachel tends to be one as well. Even as a kid, I’d pretend to sleep until after my parents were in bed, then get up and read by the nightlight in the hall.
The world is simply different at night. I love night sounds, the way the air smells. I enjoy life in a relatively safe neighborhood, so I’ve gone for many a midnight walk. You learn things about your neighbors that you wouldn’t otherwise, such as who leaves their dog out, which house the raccoons and possums prefer, and who else is a night owl. The fact that I know who watches Colbert or Letterman tells me whose house I could knock on if trouble did arise on the street.
Music plays a part in the night owl’s journey. If I’m not out wandering into one of the venues here in town, I’ve got it cranked on the speakers, especially if Rachel isn’t home.
I write a lot at night, usually until the creative part of my brain slows, then halts. That’s how I know that it’s bed time. Even then I may not give in, switching over to things like blogs . . . or something that just strikes my fancy.
Tonight it was Plenty of Fish, a dating site. I set up a profile, posted a few pictures. Probably nothing will come of it; I don’t play well on paper, and I’ve never been particularly good at talking with strange men.
Make that men who are strangers. I actually do OK with strange men, geek girl that I am.
Yeah, that’s a writer’s comment. That’s OK. It’s three in the morning, the music is jamming, and I’m wondering if I have another chapter in my head. I’m also wondering if it would be safe to go alone to this little hideaway place in Madison; I hear they have bluegrass jams twice a week….
I’ll probably come to my senses once the sun is up.
But probably not.