4AM Thoughts

I can't sleep, despite the fact that I took medicine which should have knocked me out, but I'm not really entirely coherent either. At least I can babble from bed, when I have moods like this. And you – you're the lucky folks who are being subjected to my recumbent ramblings.

– There needs to be 4AM pizza delivery. I always get hungry when I'm up at odd hours, and pizza is elegant food. If you've never had pizza in bed, you've never truly lived. Or at least, you've never been a somewhat eccentric, caffeine-addicted wannabe writer with nocturnal tendencies.

– With all the genre-specific cable channels in existance, there should be one devoted entirely to musicals. And not just old MGM movies either. Videos of Broadway shows (tapes of “Live from Lincoln Center” and “Great Performances” and such) should be included as well. Between shows, chorus dancers would teach basic dance steps – because we all want to learn how to do time steps at three in the morning, right? Or vocal exercises. And a feature at least one day a week would be a sing-along version of a favorite musical, complete with subtitled lyrics and a bouncing dot to follow. Come on, it's gotta be better than the GOLF channel.

– Few things are more comforting when you don't feel well, then a small dog resting his head on your lap. (Or in this case, my foot.) Zorro is doing this right now, and he looks like a stuffed toy – fluffy and tiny and still. (Cleo, lest she feel ignored, is lying on her back like the hussy she is.) Both dogs have feet that smell like corn chips.

– In lieu of 4AM pizza delivery, home delivery of macchiatos and butter croissants would be acceptable.

Um, yeah, bed now.

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Michele and Ginger both mentioned love letters in recent blog posts, and it's made me sit and think about the last time I really wrote a letter.

I used to be a prolific letter writer. I have a drawer full of interesting, pretty and artsy stationery, more pens than I care to count, pretty stamps, and colorful sealing wax, but do I use any of it? Hardly ever.

And I miss it.

I mean, I love the immediacy of email, the quick and breezy way we shoot text and pictures back and forth across the ether, but a tangible paper letter is a gift as much as anything made or purchased, and there's something magic about capturing a moment of time with paper and ink.

So why don't I write?

Well, first, it's really not fun unless someone writes back. As in all writing, feedback is better than chocolate. And second, well, I no longer have pretty handwriting. Years of computer use and wrist issues have combined to make my penmanship more like a doctor's scrawl than a calligrapher's script. It's embarrassing, really, because I've always felt that one's handwriting marks one, as much as how one speaks.

Sometimes I think it would be fun to recreate the experiment from my school days where we stuffed notes into helium balloons, and then released them to the winds, waiting with breathless anticipation for people to write back and tell us where they landed. Sadly, in our current state of paranoia, I fear such balloons would be shot to the ground with pellet guns, and tossed aside like so much trash.

If you found a helium ballon with READ ME written on it, would you react like Alice with her magic mushrooms, or would you go hunting for a set of sharp, pointy darts?

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