So… This Is What Writing At 5:45 AM Is Like

We are all such accidents. We do not make up history and culture. We simply appear, not by our own choice. We make what we can of our condition with the means available. We must accept the mixture as we find it — the impurity of it, the tragedy of it, the hope of it.

Saul Bellow


So… This is what writing at 5:45 am is like.  Tired, bleary eyed, unable to focus, uncertain of what exactly to write about and where to go with my thoughts,  which meander restlessly with my imagination as it tries its best to find something worth a damn to write about. Searching for meaning, looking for content, reaching for ideas.  Hoping like hell to find something intelligible and readable.

I.E. Just like writing every other time of the day. 




I’m writing at 5:45 am(actually 5:49 am now)  because wordpress was down last night and I wanted to write last night, but couldn’t.  I was going to go on this rant at a loose end about DEFUNDING BP, and I still might, in my next article.  But not this one.  I am not caffeinated enough right now.  Just hammering down my first giant cup of coffee, the one that is big enough to pour half of the pot of coffee in, finishing up the first of the semi tasty, almost but not quite chocolate and nearly cream filled Lil Debbie Swiss rolls.

The world is almost quiet.  The sound of the electronic clock, which sounds like crickets because this clock has sound effects, meant to lull you to sleep, running in the background, chirping away like electronic crickets are wont to, the sound of my fingers on the keyboard, thudding dully with that monotonous staccato that I have grown used to over the last few years of writing, actual birds outside, singing happily to themselves about whatever birds sing to themselves about.  The light of the rising sun at the back of my house filtering through my front window and the screen bringing the small amount of light necessary to actually do the writing I am doing.

Looking rather curiously at a box sitting to my right, wondering what exactly I am supposed to do with it.  It is from my wife, meant to be sent somewhere. The label says it’s going to Boston.  The label says “Fedex”. The label says “Gazelle”.  What the label really says though, is “wake up the wife and find out what she wants done with it.”

As 5:45 rolls to 6 and I look at the remnants of my coffee, nearly finished, I must unfortunately go.  I have to prepare for work.  Brush teeth, shower, shave, then wake the wife and ask if she needs me to do anything with this package.  Probably just leave it outside, but I won’t without her say so.  That would not be right, ya know?


Writers are greatly respected. The intelligent public is wonderfully patient with them, continues to read them, and endures disappointment after disappointment, waiting to hear from art what it does not hear from theology, philosophy, social theory, and what it cannot hear from pure science. Out of the struggle at the center has come an immense, painful longing for a broader, more flexible, fuller, more coherent, more comprehensive account of what we human beings are, who we are and what this life is for.

Saul Bellow


Viddy of the day, about BP,  and the effects of the spill.


Have a good day America.


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