Occasional Insomia

Hours ago, I listened to Beren's breathing ease, steady, and deepen. I picked up his incredibly heavy forty pound body (the weight of a soil bag, Jared tells me), put him in his own bed.

Jared was still awake. We talked. We both felt sad as it turns out. The passage of time was our theme. We talked about many things, but like many things, they will remain private.

I gulped down a few rounds of tears in the dark, maybe Jared did, too. I guess guys learn how to hide tears, but I have had time amd desire to control my tears. Despite the frequency of my chances to practice, I have never learned that skill.

Jared and I went downstairs. I picked at a glob of goat cheese, trying to quiet my noisy belly. Jared pulled a bottle down from the cabinet. He examined it at length and finally opened it. He poured a cup and frowned. 

"What's that?" "Red wine." "Oh, where'd it come from?" "Dunno. One of our friends from a party?" "Yeah. We always get red wine from friends."

 "I can't really drink the stuff. I mean, I can drink hard liquor but wine..." Jared says. Jared is a brandy drinking man. I am a gin drinker, though it has been a while since I treated myself. Somehow our liquor cabinet is stocked with whiskey.

 We laugh. "Your parents sometimes get good wine. Sometimes, but we drink wine there a lot and only sometimes it's good," I add. 

We have had this exchange dozens of times over the past, well however long it has been since our friends got sophisticated (economically stable? Socially comformist? Kid-i-fied? Eco-friendly?? Locoboozed??) enough to bring red wine and IPAs and lagers instead of cheap beer and booze and well, more cheap booze.

"I just can't drink anymore of this. ready for bed?" Jared asks.

Back in bed, I listen to Jared's breathing ease, steady, and deepen. I lay there for awhile. Probably not that long. I sit up and watch the stars until I decide to go downstairs, pull on my worn kung fu shoes, and go outside.

Out here, I am reminded that the dome above us is so starry. We have beautiful stars here. As good as the Catskills, though pur peripheral star count goes down the closer the sky dome gets to earth. Phillipsburg, Bethlehem and Easton, Clinton and Flemington, possibly, dim our star dome. I hope no one builds next door, I think.

On earth, the stubbly lawn grass and field pathways are illuminated by glow worms. There is one about every three or four feet. I have to show Beren this tomorrow, I think.

I listen for the highway. Tonight, the road noise is loud, carrying across rolling Highlands farm fields up to our ridge. Motorcycles, trucks, cars. A train. Someone plays loud, dance music towards the north. Sound carries, except when I walk down in the lower field. I have noticed cool currents of air down there, too.

As I walk through the field, I look up and watch the star dome change. That must be a constellation. I once read in a fairly straight pamphlet about constellations that said one day the stars will speak for themselves. I liked that idea and still do. More glow worms.

At the highest point in our field the dome expands to its greatest potential this side of the prairie, or so it seems quite huge to me. No trees, I think, no trees. I like the meadow, more Rudbeckia.

By now, i have out lasted the dance party in the northlands, but not the highway and not the police siren that calls out twice to advise the singing insects and the woman writing as she sits in the hammock that it is most certainly time to go to bed.