When I was in high school, I woke up one February morning, staggered into the shower, set the family table for breakfast, groggily downed some toast and tea, then walked through the still-dark streets to my school.

The streets were quiet and empty.

When I got to school, the doors were locked. On the corner, the Bowery Saving Bank's clock flashed "37 degrees" then, "3:22 am.”

Damn it.

I turned around, walked home, and fell back in bed, fully clothed. Three hours later, I did the whole thing over again.
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I started writing this at 3 am. As happens to me more nights than not, I was up and thinking.

Sometimes I think coherent and actionable thoughts. I have ideas for projects or just individual sentences. More often, my mind is wrestling with nonsense. I worry about my health, my finances, my wife, my dog. Instead of counting blessings, I inventory curses. The monkey is wide awake.
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My grandfather ended each day with a snifter of brandy and a sleeping pill. My mother does the same.

I forgo drugs. Instead, I read, ideally something complex and dull.

Jenny used to sleep like a top, but then, in her forties, she started to join me for late-night reading. We lie side by side in the dark, our Kindles glowing. If we must talk, we whisper. Our dogs snore on.

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I open a scientific journal.

​Apparently, researchers at Boston University in Massachusetts have discovered that the cerebrospinal fluid in our brains and spinal cords washes in and out of our skulls as we sleep, like chemical waves, sweeping away accumulated metabolic “trash.”

I love this idea and this image, but many mornings, my brain is only half washed, still sticky, trash clinging to the sides of the pail.
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I read some history.

Until the last couple of centuries, people typically slept in two separate periods. They'd go to bed soon after dusk and sleep till midnight. Then they'd awaken and hang out, eat, make love, do chores, and then go back to bed. This was called 'biphasic' or 'second sleep.' It was so common, people rarely commented on it, but there are accounts of it in diaries, court records, and even literature.

Then industrial capitalism and electricity came along.

Now people needed to go to bed and to work at specific times. Work shifts were invented. Naps became a rare luxury. We stayed up late watching TV. We were encouraged to have a single serving of 7-9 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And for the first time, the phenomenon of insomnia appeared.
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Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet? — Dylan

Sometimes, instead of reading, I write.

When the going gets tough, I slip out of bed and come in here to my desk. I pour all of the crap in my head onto my keyboard. After twenty minutes of clackety purging, I can return to my bed and sleep like a cadaver. In the light of the day, my midnight ramblings are incomprehensible woes.

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I know people who love to sleep, who see it as the most delicious treat to sink in to the pillows and doze away for eight, nine, ten hours.

Not me. I haven't slept late since the ‘80s. Or certainly not since my son started asking for a 6 am diaper change, circa 1994.
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What would my life have been like if I'd slept more?

I guess I would have been awake less. Had less time to think and write and, ironically, dream. But maybe I sleep enough.

I'm reasonably healthy and alert. My subconscious seem to have had enough time to process the experiences of the day, to assemble ideas, and solve problems.

To that point, I love the experience of going to bed with a dilemma or a half formed thought and then waking up with a solution, clear as morning light.

Maybe that's why I'm waking up in the early hours — my mind just wants to get up and play with me.

Your pal,

Danny