A bountiful life. Snoozing or not.

Sleep. That’s one of my shortcomings. I don’t get enough sleep. Wish I’d get more. But I want to finish out the day. In grand style. With a flourish. And that cuts into my sleep time. Can’t remember when I last got 8 hours. Often, I go to bed at 2 in the morning. And get up at daybreak. Sometimes, I go back to bed again. For an hour or two. Once upon a time, I slept straight through. For 8 hours, or more. I was more well-regulated. But I don’t want to be regulated anymore.  I’d rather live in a hodge-podge pattern. But always interested in something.  That’s why I like to stay awake. Sleep may break my chain of thought. Of course, it also tends to refresh one’s mind. But I find that staying awake. Can be stimulating, too. Also, a catnap is almost as good as a prolonged sleep. Oh well, I’m not going to worry about a lack of sleep. Or for that matter, a lack of anything. After all. I have a bountiful life. –Jim Broede

Merit in self-sacrifice.

Often. I want stuff that affects me. Directly. To go my way. Of course, that will never happen. But still, it’s food for thought. About a perfectly planned and regimented life. Everything falling into place. In neat order. According to script. Would that make me happy? Probably not. There’s something nice. About being disappointed. In not always getting my way. After all, tough times made me a better person. Forced to adjust. To improvise. To be creative. Thereby, giving me a sense of accomplishment. Thing is. If everything goes my way, it could be bad for others. Better to work for the common good. Yes. Yes. Merit in self-sacrifice. –Jim Broede

I'm still waiting.

The woman. Asking me questions. In a political opinion survey. Didn’t know who sanctioned the poll. Prompting me to ask to talk to her supervisor. She had no supervisor. Only a manager, she declared. That’s significant. She was being managed. Not supervised. Told her I wouldn’t have taken the job. Under those circumstances. I’d want to know more. About who was running the show. And how this information would be used. Doesn’t matter, she said. I suggested that she was a robot. Performing a function. Automatically. Without any forethought. Without curiosity.  She objected to being called a robot. To prove it, she announced that she had five children. I wondered. If that was proof enough. That I knew plenty of robotic mothers.  Anyway, she went to fetch her manager. To no avail. He was busy. Could I stay online for a little while? Instead. I gave her my name and phone number. Have him call at his convenience. A week later, I’m still waiting. –Jim Broede