Sunrise En Route

I am always eager to improve myself, although that does not always manifest itself as genuine effort. It's often mere aspiration more than anything, and one way in which that is true is how I deal with mornings. I admire those who are up bright and early. I can manage it from time to time, but not with a tremendous amount of enthusiasm. I suspect that I may find it easier to do mornings when late night opportunities begin to dry up.

That's the thing: I can't get myself to curtail the late night when the early morning comes, and so I either burn the candle at both ends or neither. It seems indecent to get to bed before 10pm, and yet that is what I found myself faced with the other day. There's something very wrong about heading out for the day not just before it's light out but before the newspaperman has hit the block (a daily occurrence which used to mean something).

Of A Saturday Morning

I woke up at seven and felt like hell. I had done nothing to account for this the night before- as is my natural inclination, I had stayed in, and did nothing more outgoing than participate in a brainstorming session for a film script. I guess that I must have spoken my contributions too volubly, for  my throat felt as if it had been lost at sea and washed ashore to be found by the men of a fishing village. That is to say that my throat was sore and that I am uncomfortably close to being a kindred spirit to George Will in temperament. I got up, went to the bathroom, got a drink of water to wash down an ibuprofen tablet with and got back into bed.

I slept fitfully for the next hour, at which time I awoke again and still felt like hell. The train was leaving the station on the reason I had gotten up at seven. I ruefully watched it go and hoped nothing awful would come of my absence. An alternative plan for the day had been superseded by this one, and I effectively wrote it off as well. There was just not enough water out there to pacify my restive throat. With it still raging and my stomach waterlogged, I returned to bed.

Crazy Early

As I write this, I am engaged in doing some acting in a small film. That is to say that I have completed my first day on the shoot, and am facing the second day to come. As is usually the case, actors and crew are called to the set at a very early hour so as to make the most of the day. Being in this case an actor and not crew, I am needed slightly later- half an hour later, in this case. Thus it makes little difference for anyone and none at all for me, as I must hitch a ride with a member of the crew anyway. It's really for the best that I must get up so early. I've commented on early mornings once or twice, primarily from a romantic perspective, but that's obviously not all there is to it. When I remove the influence from that side of myself, the early morning looks different.

The day always begins with a start, so to speak. The moment I hear my alarm and gain consciousness, I bolt upright and check the time frantically. Once the immediate feeling of stark terror passes with the knowledge that I've woken up at the appropriate time, it gives way to a feeling that might be called grim resignation for lack of better descriptors. The pleasure that comes from arising with the sun is not applicable for the earlier hour and for the fact that there is no time to tarry. The shower is a quick and practical one. The breakfast is likewise, although there is the hope of a better and more leisurely breakfast to come when I arrive on set. One can't place undue confidence in that, however. Many is the day that no real breakfast is to be had, and by that time it is all too late to go back out for anything. With a small breakfast in my stomach, I head out into the chill air with my way lit by street lamps.

The Time Special And Solitary

I have written in passing about my attitude regarding the early morning, but don't believe that I have elaborated upon the very brief comments I made. As I said then, my feelings are very much in line with those of my father and the great Henry David Thoreau. The morning is a very special time when the day holds what I consider to be literally unlimited potential. At the hour of 5 AM, it seems to me that absolutely anything might transpire before one will have occasion to sleep again. The vast majority of the day's potential permutations are eliminated in short order, and that's part of what makes it so worth being up early.

Dad is really something where this is concerned. He's the chief inspiration for my feelings on the matter. He'll be the last man on Earth who gets up with the rooster, walks out to the driveway to get the paper, and then reads it with a cup of coffee before heading out to work. He does that every day, and not begrudgingly. Rain or shine, work day or weekend, he's up at the crack of dawn and joining the day on the ground floor. I would admire him greatly for nothing more than that. He's the model I strive to match. I would express similar if lesser praise about Thoreau, but I never met him.

The early morning

I think I may have written about the morning before. It's the earliest and most laden with potential part of the day. I recently was reading Walden, and the early morning was important to Thoreau. Clearly he found it easier to get up early than I do, as he faced fewer obstacles in so doing. I miraculously woke up before 6 am today. Today may very well hold much in store for me.