I used to think Daylight Savings Time had something to do with farmers, then Congress extended it last year purportedly to save energy (although it actually uses more energy), and now I know for a fact that it is an evil plot to keep the masses off balance so that they don’t rise up and overthrow the oppressors.
We are all in a DST-induced discombobulation at our house. It’s not just like our body clocks are one hour off, but more like we have been transported to a planet that has shifting days ranging from nine to 36 hours long. Everyone is tired and cranky by 6 p.m., but no one can fall asleep before 9:00 (M yelled from his bed last night: “We need sleeping pills, Mom!”). I’ve been waking up between 3:00 and 5:00 every morning (which translates to 2:00-4:00 Eastern Standard Time!), unable to get back to sleep. And tiny little things set everyone off—they whine and fight and cry over who gets which carseat, sitting down to eat dinner and broken Lego sets (OK, they did that during EST too, but my tolerance level is WAY lower now).
In other news, I started an email poetry class yesterday. We’re encouraged (but not required) to write a poem a day. Here’s my attempt for day 1 (with the caveat that I know f***-all about writing poetry, so go ahead and laugh, you won’t hurt my feelings):
Turning on My Computer in the Morning
Still cold from the long walk
From the parking lot to the red brick building
That once housed mental patients but now
Confines State workers in even rows
I change my shoes—like Mr. Rogers—
Drape a deep turquoise shawl over my shoulders
And press the power strip switch with my toe
The grey burlap walls of my cubicle
Press in around me and I don’t see
The faces of my children, the moon over Half Dome
The dried orange butterfly wings or the piles
Of unfinished work as I sit, hand poised over mouse,
And wait for my day to begin
I promise I won't torture you with every poem I attempt (provided I actually follow-through with daily writing), but you may see another poem or two here over the next few weeks.