Miles to go...

Okay, my biggest fan, here goes:

Insomnia has crept back into my life, it seems. Changing the day, changing the night, in the words of Nick Cave, whose concert I had tickets to a month or so after 9/11; when we got to the Beacon, it had been canceled. I don't quite recall what we did after cocktails at an amiable gay bar on the Upper West Side, but I'm sure it didn't go smoothly. Things didn't those days.

Here is a poem I like:

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the wood and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

These woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I first became aware of that one (that's Robert Frost, by the way) in Jamaica. I still have the journal where one of the gents we were traveling with crafted his version of the piece one boozy rainy everythingy afternoon.

And now, I must attempt that bed thing again. Argh. I'll try to read, not be able to, and then be wide awake again. Why not just go to sleep? People ask. Would that it were that easy, non-insomniacs -- somniacs -- of the world. Somniac. I like it.

Sometimes I feel like this: