The Shark

For the past six months or so I'm embarrassed to admit that I've been going to bed ridiculously early. I don't sleep. I watch television, drink a glass of wine, listen to my radio. I'm tired but not tired enough to conk out so I vegetate most ignominiously. I don't even read. Okay, sometimes I try to do a sudoku. This week my slothism had hit rock bottom. Coming to my senses, I decided that, like the shark, I would continue to move until 10 pm and only then would I be able to enter the inner sanctum. If I don't sit down, I can achieve my goal. I wash the dishes, clean off all flat surfaces in the home, cast on knitting needles for sixers, go to Target, fold clothes, walk over to the corporate book store, come home and re-wash counters, you get the picture. I keep moving in a relentless drive to avoid horizonticalism. The kitchen's looking clean and my self respect is on the rise. My next step is to add meaning to my evening activities, but that's a long way off.