4:47 a.m. - 2024-04-08
take a shower, man
The nights had been clear all week; chilly yet for April in Texas...stars impossibly bright.
Not last night, though. Last night a heavy blanket of clouds delivered as advertised: trapping the ground heat and insulating our rough little patch of planet as we spun w/predictable violence through the infinite yonder. This cloud cover also left the sky dark...the color of pitch, I'm conditioned to estimate. (Pitch itself being, among other things, an insulating resin--so the tired equivalence suits.) Given that I was walking outside in my underwear and running shoes, the mild night air was appreciated.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary within the weathered old well-pump housing. No busted pipes or loose wiring, just inert equipment and spiders spidering quietly about their business. So I turned and followed the dim path of my flashlight towards the ridge; towards the power pole and the pump-breaker that lay a short scramble up the trail.
How did I know the pump was off at 1 AM, you ask? And if no one else was staying on the property, couldn't a repair wait until morning?
~ ~ ~
For the depression-prone, sleep can be complicated. The stereotype of someone who's lost their will to get out of bed, who prefers the cradle of sleep to the melancholic reality beyond, does hold true. I know some folks like that, and half-envy them. Because for those of us wired differently, sleep remains elusive. I get four hours a day maybe...a shortcoming compounded, schedule-wise, by the fact that I turn in quite early.That too may be a by-product of depression. Because I've lost any appetite for a social life of late and have no reason to stay up alone, awake. This monastic trend started last year. Before that, even through the pandemic, I had lady-friends who'd stop by more-or-less on the reg to chat and listen to music, crack a few cans...lay down for a bit if so inclined. But for whatever reason I've quit returning texts or answering those late-night calls. (A curious aside: the bulk of these midnight-missives, though from different senders, tend to arrive en masse on the same nights. Something to do with the full moon I've gathered? Probably 'cause I date witches, mostly?) I did the math and last year was the first spent celibate since '83. So perhaps after forty years that part of me (so to speak) has retired?
Anyway, owing to this lack of intimate contact, and to my longstanding disregard for “self-care”, I've begun to exhibit another stereotypical depression-tell: I'll go days w/out showering. Maybe a week, sometimes? I don't keep a log-book. Fortunately there's a cool life-hack for this: If you're lying in bed, filthy and wide awake, you can kill two birds w/one stone by...taking a shower! Something about soap and hot water eases one's worldview. And there's a sense of humble accomplishment (happy productive people take showers!) found while toweling off in the steam, a feeling that mitigates self-loathing. Long enough to grab a few more hours of shuteye, at least.
That's why I noticed the well-pump was off at 1 AM. And since I was already awake I might as well get to the bottom of things.
~ ~ ~
It turned out to be a switch, triggered by the pressure tank in my shop. Dirty contacts. That's why the pump wasn't on. Easily remedied w/a sandpaper scuff, a redneck repair that works on spark-plugs too...but you knew that, and that's not the point of this entry. It's not what I sat down to note and remember.That would be the night air.
Had it been a few degrees cooler I'd have been cursing under my breath; any warmer and my mind would have been on the heat of the day to come. But as my flashlight caught glinting bits of quartz and flint amidst the limestone scree of the ridge trail, my only thought was, “It feels like spring.” A thought as comfortable as the air on my skin. Framed in and of the moment; neither with relief over winter's end, nor dread of an impending summer. In and of the moment.
Walking through the still of the night in my underwear, I felt the peaceful indifference an oak tree must. Another season to be alive.
