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Sleep is underrated
Do something wild on Sunday, it more or less read at a woo-woo site deep in my bookmarks. Hmm. I had nothing planned but to fret, choose, and write, and most days have time for just two out of three. Under the circumstances, what would be wild would be burning the schedule, so I started out Sunday by sleeping in.

No matter when I go to bed, usually any time between 1:30 and 3:30 a.m., I always wake up a little after 8:00 in the morning. If I get out of bed then, I catch up with my wife while she's getting her cereal. When she has something to tell me, I usually sense it and roll out like clockwork, but this Sunday was different: "Do something wild," I remembered, so I flopped over and lay there till 9:00. Two consecutive nights of 3:00 a.m. shutdowns had left me unrested, and I needed a break -- even now as I write this, the memory those free 40 minutes is like a loving caress.

[Not enough has been written, in my humble opinion, about that last bit of sleeptime when there's light in the window but you don't have to get up, so you turn yourself over for that cool slab of pillow up under your cheek. Edging a warm leg out from under the covers is almost as pleasurable but rarely accompanied by that "I can still be here," no-school-on-Saturday feeling. Maybe I should write up a grant proposal.]

Easy does it
My sweetie had business, so the rest of the morning was mine. I read through the funnies, avoiding the hard news more carefully than usual. (The Führer was in Santa Fe, so caution was called for.) It was rapidly warming outside, and my Wal-Mart lawn chair beckoned seductively. Perfect hair-drying weather as usual in the Land of Enchantment, so I showered, got dressed, and took coffee outside. No newspapers though, and no iBook for email. "Do something wild" meant I'd just sit and be calm.

Air temperature 55, ice still on the birdbath, humidity 12 percent, sun like a heat lamp. With a denim shirt, shorts, and Doc Marten sandals, I was almost too warm. Needless to say, there weren't any bugs. High overhead in a Siberian elm, a humongous black raven honked like a metronome, while circling magpies played keep-away with yesterday's rolls from a bakery dumpster. A hummingbird buzzed in to visit the feeder, as grosbeaks and siskens looked vainly for seeds. (I stop feeding the latter when I get too embarrassed to be seen driving my truck.) This was exquisite, and radical too. I should do this more often, I thought, just sit here and be.

Then I remembered the New York Times I' d promised to pick up at the newstand -- with all the tourists in town for the art shows, they'd disappear fast. My hair was still wet (and down to my shoulder blades), but I let it blow loose as I walked to the plaza. Strangers in spotless black Tevas with glowing pink toes had gutted the pile, but there was still one for me. I paid way too much and carried it home, deciding on the way back that the day was so perfect, I wouldn't read it either.

And a good time was had by all
By now the spell had generated a force field I wanted to extend. After a delightful lunch of tuna and crackers with my significant other, I stayed outside at least one more hour just digging the air. A few puffy white clouds with every strand visible blew silently overhead through a blue I knew had to go all the way down.

Finally I decided to take some action. Tuna and crackers being insufficient to sustain life, I walked to the arts & crafts show in the park to score a frito pie at the concession stand. The fellow in front of me got the last of those, the proprietress having run out of chile, so I ordered a hot dog. When she shoved it across the counter, I discovered it was only a three-biter, and I had to get two. No matter: this gave me enough fuel to make three leisurely circuits of all the booths, listen to the Andean flute ensemble, and put off sitting in front of a computer for at least another 45 minutes. I wasn't worried, though. This was my day and I couldn't think of letting unread email get in my way. No fretting, choosing, or writing, remember. Sunday afternoon is usually Deadline City around here, but not this Sunday.

As I walked back to the apartment, I noticed the awful state of our birdpooped vehicles in the parking lot and decided to wash them both. (I got plenty of ultra-violet in the process, which was fine, because the last thing I want are shiny pink toes or the dreaded "white-legs.") When I was finished with the truck, I got out the Armor-All and cleaned every inch in side the cab, taking all the time I wanted. I'll bet by now you can figure out what I did next, only this time I sipped lime juice and vodka as the sun was going down. (Brrr)

Being wild and giving in is why it's 2:13 a.m. now and I still have to add the JPEG -- let that be a lesson to you, only be sure you pick the right one.

Senior Applelinks editor and columnist John H. Farr invites your emails.

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