I am considering becoming nocturnal. It’s not like I won’t be able to procure the essentials: 7-Eleven is open every hour of every day. Actual food might prove slightly more difficult to procure, but I’m sure I could manage if I were willing to stay up early from time to time. I might be able to see some of my friends much more than I would otherwise, since my Ben Franklin way of living doesn’t much overlap with their free time (Nor is it making me particularly healthy or wealthy. Wise is simply out of the question.). The kids wouldn’t mind having me a little less high-energy around the time they need to get up and I’d be able to ensure that T. doesn’t have too many nights in which he gets sucked into playing Legos until the wee hours.

Then there is the moon. I love the moon in that impossible child’s way. I saw a sliver of it last night as we came out of the ballpark from the Giants game and it stilled the raucous crowd-pounding of my heart. The hungry gulls swooped in the ballpark’s lights. The two congregations who met continued their chants as they left their stadium sanctuary, one in the frenzy of victory, the other as a ritual to stave off despair. The moon winked at it all.

We drove home over the hypnotic bridge, all shadows rhythmically shaped, a star appearing and disappearing with the regularity of girders.

And so I slept well until this early hour of the morning. So much for that plan.