Frogsong

I'm at my desk under the roof upstairs. It's the first night of frogsong so far this year. That was a pleasant surprise at sundown--and they're still singing out there. Love it.

This is the first time in seven years that I've lived with a television. When it's off I have no problems leaving it off, but when it's on I have to stay out of the room. It is loud, mostly meaningless, and full of advertisements for things that I don't need. And I am all too susceptible to television's charms. I stay away because I would rather not find myself becoming emotionally invested in soap operas or The Parent Trap or whatever. I'd rather not find myself on the couch welling up with tears at the end of some cheesy movie at 3am.

For the same investment of time, I could listen to three John Coltrane records. I could read a substantial chunk of something life-changing. I could write an article that teaches me something I didn't know before. I could actually talk to another human being instead of watching their glassy-eyed ghosts on that screen.

One way that television sucks us in is by constantly changing camera angles. We are hardwired to pay attention to sudden color changes and visual surprises and volume fluctuations. Television tycoons have made their fortunes in large part by exploiting this evolutionary quirk.

I can watch the tube for hours--just like I can watch a fire or anything else that flickers and glows. The difference of course is that a fire actually gives off warmth, gathers us together socially, and doesn't try to sell me fabric softener.

* * *

It's now morning and I'm sitting by the front window of the cafe with a dark cloud of espresso spreading through my bloodstream. I got exactly one hour and forty-five minutes of sleep last night. The sun is bright and I'm listening to Smokey Robinson. Sounds good. Feels good. No complaints.

My mother was born today. We're going out to dinner tonight and that will be a blast--but I'll be a happy man when I can finally crawl into bed later this evening.

* * *

It's well past midnight. The last notes of Sinatra's 1955 album "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning" faded away a few minutes ago.

Often at the end of the day I feel a hanging tension, some dissonance inside of myself unresolved, and I cannot sleep. For the past few weeks I've been restless this way, getting no more than four hours per night. I am starting to feel the burn.

Soon enough my body will reach its limit and I will just fall in my tracks for a day or two. I am looking forward to that. Until then, thank you for reading my bleary ramblings.