Jonathan Swift once wrote...

"Man is never so contemplative as when he is at stool". Frankly I beg to differ. Vacation, late night and a quiet, serene, comfortable home certainly wins when it comes to contemplation. Why do we do what we do? Why do we enjoy what we enjoy? What makes me happy? What makes me sad, anxious, worried, scared? Looking back at the last 40 or so years, have the choices I've made been worthwhile, have I made a difference? Would I do it all over again if I could? Would I make the same choices? Have I given my children a foundation to make choices in their lives, or did I just give them controlled chaos and leave their fates to the winds of fortune or luck? Is this ride, as short as it is, a great ride or just an endless loop of ups and downs? What about when the ride ends, does it really end or does it just change shape? I have no idea on any of these things, but I sure am chewing on them in the quiet of the night.

I miss the night. There was a time where I rarely went to bed before midnight. I used to work, or read or listen to music, or just fret. Now the first real conscious effects of "getting old" have to do with sleep. If I don't get enough, if I stay up late and have to work the next day, I'm a mess. I'm tired, yawning, crabby, curt, and generally not pleasant. The world seems to spin so very much more quickly without these extra hours at night. I somehow felt more alive with longer days, now I feel the "grind". Get up, work, go to second job, come home, go to bed, do it all over again the next day. This is why I cherish this vacation thing, just the luxury of being able to stay up well past my new "bedtime". This alone makes me feel young again, no matter that it's just temporary (only 4 more days this week actually, but who's counting?).

Once upon a time the day still had a long way to go when, on the radio, (WNEW-FM 102.7) would come the ethereal voice....“The flutter of wings, the shadow across the moon, the sounds of the night, as the Nightbird spreads her wings and soars, above the earth, into another level of comprehension, where we exist only to feel. Come, fly with me, Alison Steele, the Nightbird, at WNEW-FM, until dawn.”
The music would play in the background, sometimes on the radio next to my bed, sometimes I would listen through the night while reading or working.

Alison Steele died of stomach cancer  in 1995, aged 58. I'll be 58 in August of this year. Sorry Mr. Swift, man is never so contemplative as when he is alone, late at night, in his home.