What time do you get up?

From time to time someone asks “what time do you get up mornings?” Sunday and Tuesday I have mental work to do preparing for the morning, and if I’m not up by three it puts me behind and unprepared, but sometimes it’s as late as four anyway. Other days it varies. If two or even three, I may lie down in the other bedroom and try to resume sleep, which may come; like this morning up at three I slept until just after five. If four, I make coffee, Kona if I have the beans, in my magical machine and begin enjoying being alive. I may start writing a blog post, which is not to entertain but to help keep my mind from calcifying, which it's doing anyway. Now and then, it’s too late to blog before my exercise and the blog gets done later. Once in a while I decide, as now, I’m tired of this nonsense, besides I’m becoming Balaam (Numbers 22), I’m quitting. But at this age the mental exercise of thinking and writing is fully as important as the physical exercise, maybe even more so. I like to read. I don’t read the newspaper except online snatches of NYT, TWP, CSM, and a handful others. I don’t watch TV, can hardly bear the sound of it being on, so I read or write. Nor listen to the radio in my car, can’t stand the sound of it intruding into beloved silence. But dislike that the blogpost lets the world observe me devolving — one of Anu Garg’s recent words — into cantankerous, grouchy, opinionated, disgusted, sometimes angry and bitter, now and then vicious, generally politically incorrect but stuff it. But that’s the way it is and unfortunately I’m as human as can be. So leave it up, only one time in five years have I deleted a post the next day: leave it up to document my slipping into the abyss. At least I’m not certain of anything; especially my harebrained opinions.

This blogpost probably should have been two or three paragraphs. 

Okay, this makes three.

TW