I’m not the least bit sleepy.
I’ve only been unemployed twice in the last forty years, and I’m afraid that each time, I’ve reverted to the preferred schedule of my college days.
I like to stay up all night and nap in the afternoon.
About two hours ago (maybe more) I sat down on the couch in the den, and put on Lohengrin, with Netrebko and Beczala, hoping to soar into a lovely night’s sleep.
That’s when the questions began. How do you spell Beczala? And how do you pronounce it? Does the “l” sound like a “v” as in Polish? Is he Polish? Is it hard to sing in German if you’re Polish? Is it hard to sing German when you’re Russian? Is it hard for Poles and Russians to sing together in German? And shouldn’t the Wedding March have been played already?
Tick tick tick. I’m not getting tired.
Then my son comes into the room. “Do you know what time it is?” Yes. I am awake, not stupid. “Then go to bed. You’re keeping me awake,” he says. Liar. He’s been snoring for hours.
He goes away. The cats rearrange themselves in their chairs. Beczala produces such beautiful sound that I don’t care if his name is pronounced Whitley.
I don’t have to wake up tomorrow.
I sent out three or four resumes today, and while I know it would be MUCH more sensible and secure to go back to work, I could really enjoy these sybaritic evenings in the dark, basking in the glory of Wagner.
Now, had he been Polish, would that have been spelled “Lagner?”
Tick tick tick.