Banish Self-Helplessness

I woke up and read a friend's blog post covering several topics, and polished-off with a graphic that I wouldn't want to look at too often because it was kind of creepy. This blogger-buddy said something interesting and a bit provoking.

"If it's hard to kick the self-help habit, then seek other people's advice on how to become a better person, follow it and become one...if only to blog about it when and if it happens."

Thought provoking even if I disagree with the sentiment.

It's my plan to spend the rest of my life trying to be a better person. I'll let you know how it went, if and when I have my death-bed moment. Growth and change is a worthy goal for anybody. Another friend wrote about the power of one voice among many. I agree with that, and there is power in individual good deeds, too. That's a cliche-way to say it, but remember all the random acts of kindness a few years back? How could kindness ever be a bad thing? I'm not talking about stupid kindness, like taking that nice hitch-hiker home for the night, but things like supporting programs for the homeless, writing a lonely person a letter, or just letting a car merge into your lane.

As for "self-help" books...If you don't have a community that can help you move along your self-improvement path then, by all means, seek out the written words to educate and enlighten yourself. Wisdom is hidden all over the place and a lot of it is preserved within text. Words are amazingly powerful. Words can be in lovely old books, new shiny books with silly covers, within blogs, letters, poems, on billboards, and all over your computer screen. This is why we have critical thinking skills. When you read bullshit, say so. Don't be embarrassed because you're a seeker.

Reading, Rest, and Recuperation

I woke up with a headache last Wednesday, and things went downhill from there. It's just a common cold but it's so blasted annoying. I went outside yesterday and sat in the sun for a good while. Vitamin D rocks. Soaking up some rays felt like a turning point and I started feeling better. I'm even better this morning so I hope there are no surprises in store.

It was hard for me to sleep so I started reading Stephen King's The Stand during my convalescence. Very bad idea. What I read in the evenings has always affected what I dream about, so I usually try to read something positive and/or enlightening. Poetry doesn't have an effect. I don't know why. So, last night, I told Steve I was tired of the freaky dreams, but I was past the really gruesome descriptions, so I continued reading the book. Another poor decision because I had the worst dreams yet.

I give up. No more caffeine after 3:00, and no more Stephen King after 6 PM. Is this how old age is going to progress, with more don'ts than do's?

I was sick of being in the house on Saturday. I couldn't do anything more for my physical health, but I could improve my mental health. We woke up early, got coffee, and went for a drive through the Plains. I wanted to see the towns of Johnstown and Milliken again. Cute places. I saw a multitude of horses and some buffalo. We ended up in downtown Loveland and went for a walk to look at the old buildings. I felt better after getting out for a while, but also exhausted.

Prose Poetry: Poseur or True Poetry?

My online dictionary defines poetry as follows:

poetry |ˈpōətrē; ˈpōitrē|nounliterary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature : he is chiefly famous for his love poetry.• a quality of beauty and intensity of emotion regarded as characteristic of poems : poetry and fire are nicely balanced in the music.• something regarded as comparable to poetry in its beauty : the music department is housed in a building that is pure poetry.ORIGIN late Middle English : from medieval Latin poetria, from Latinpoeta ‘poet.’ In early use the word sometimes referred to creativeliterature in general.In early use the word sometimes referred to creativeliterature in general."###We all know what we think poetry is. Some people call Jack and Jill a poem. Other people gravitate toward Howl.I read one article that stated prose poetry is indeed poetry because it has rhythm, rhyme, assonance, imagery, consonance, and repetition. There are expectations for a prose poem. It's usually presented in block form, and is generally no longer than a page. The main difference between traditional forms and a prose poem, is that the prose poem has to achieve it's purpose without the help of meter's beauty. 

All of this blah blah blah is my warm up into the definition of prose poetry. A highly educated and astute friend disagrees with me that it's poetry at all. I, despite my haphazard education, think otherwise. It's a new form and has no tradition to back it up but, as a sort of contradiction, I discovered that prose poetry began in 19th century France. Another source said the Book of Psalms in the King James bible is prose poetry. Mary Oliver seems to be sitting on the fence when she says, "...or perhaps just because it's something other than a poem" but she also says prose poetry must change the reader. The reader must feel a response, just as we expect from poetry in general. Poetic devices are regularly used in fiction, particularly in literary fiction, and serve to enhance the writing for all to enjoy. The Meadow by James Galvin is a good example. We readers are grateful when we come across beautiful writing, no matter what the label is.If you're interested in reading some excellent prose poetry, go to the works of Pablo Neruda, W.S. Merwin, and Walt Whitman. Jim Harrison is a personal favorite.

Keeping a Diary With Virginia Woolf

I prefer the word journal. Words have connotations and diary is forever linked to that little kind with the tiny lock, and the key that always got lost. Journals are for people who like to stew in their thoughts, to cogitate. And no one cogitates better than Virginia Woolf.

I've been sick this week with a cold. A rotten, miserable, inconvenient bug. This is my excuse for sitting here doing more reading than writing. I came across a wealth of Virginia Woolf's writing about the benefits of keeping a diary, so I'll use her incredible writing skills to share my sentiments. It's also interesting that she calls the age of 50 "elderly".

Here are Virginia Woolf's thoughts in part:

I got out this diary and read, as one always does read one’s own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity. I confess that the rough and random style of it, often so ungrammatical, and crying for a word altered, afflicted me somewhat. I am trying to tell whichever self it is that reads this hereafter that I can write very much better; and take no time over this; and forbid her to let the eye of man behold it. And now I may add my little compliment to the effect that it has a slapdash and vigour and sometimes hits an unexpected bull’s eye. But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles. Going at such a pace as I do I must make the most direct and instant shots at my object, and thus have to lay hands on words, choose them and shoot them with no more pause than is needed to put my pen in the ink. I believe that during the past year I can trace some increase of ease in my professional writing which I attribute to my casual half hours after tea. Moreover there looms ahead of me the shadow of some kind of form which a diary might attain to. I might in the course of time learn what it is that one can make of this loose, drifting material of life; finding another use for it than the use I put it to, so much more consciously and scrupulously, in fiction. What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think on re-reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time. But looseness quickly becomes slovenly. A little effort is needed to face a character or an incident which needs to be recorded. Nor can one let the pen write without guidance; for fear of becoming slack and untidy. . . .

I note however that this diary writing does not count as writing, since I have just re-read my year’s diary and am much struck by the rapid haphazard gallop at which it swings along, sometimes indeed jerking almost intolerably over the cobbles. Still if it were not written rather faster than the fastest type-writing, if I stopped and took thought, it would never be written at all; and the advantage of the method is that it sweeps up accidentally several stray matters which I should exclude if I hesitated, but which are the diamonds of the dustheap. If Virginia Woolf at the age of 50, when she sits down to build her memoirs out of these books, is unable to make a phrase as it should be made, I can only condole with her and remind her of the existence of the fireplace, where she has my leave to burn these pages to so many black films with red eyes in them. But how I envy her the task I am preparing for her! There is none I should like better. Already my 37th birthday next Saturday is robbed of some of its terrors by the thought. Partly for the benefit of this elderly lady (no subterfuges will then be possible: 50 is elderly, though I anticipate her protest and agree that it is not old) partly to give the year a solid foundation I intend to spend the evenings of this week of captivity in making out an account of my friendships and their present condition, with some account of my friends’ characters; and to add an estimate of their work and a forecast of their future works. The lady of 50 will be able to say how near to the truth I come; but I have written enough for tonight (only 15 minutes, I see).

Monday's Momentum

Monday got off to a weird start in a small way then, once the crazy-ball was rolling, things sped up. It started when my neighbor came over to get the Sunday paper's crossword puzzle we always save for him. (he has a standing order)  Unfortunately for me, I wasn't dressed yet and my hair was its usual fright wig. (it takes copious amounts of water to subdue my hair. I don't understand the physics yet) He told me the other neighbor's German Shepherd was running around loose, so he had called animal control to pick up the dog before it could hurt his cat.

I got dressed, planning to go check on the dog once I was presentable for a public appearance. I looked out the window, expecting to see a dog, but there was a group of Catholic priests standing across the street, talking and laughing. That house belongs to the church, and a priest lives there, but I seldom see him, much less see him all dolled up in his black cassock. There were at least ten men in long, black vestments. I immediately thought of crows. I wish I could have taken a photo of the unusual crowd, but that would have been un-neighborly of me.

I was still trying to watch Obama's inauguration but I didn't want the neighbor's dog to get picked up. I went next door to see if the gate was open. The gate was locked tight and the very large dog was lying in front of it. When I slowly approached, he stood then dropped down into a pose that looked like he was about to charge. I retreated but he followed me, peeking around the corner of the house to watch me go back inside. Armed with a package of crackers, I returned to their yard. I was nervous as he walked up to me, but he ate a cracker. I tried to go past him to the gate but he got there before me. I gave him some more crackers and was rewarded with a little wag of his tail.

Because of the solid fence, I've never seen the neighbor's dog. In fact, I thought they only had one. I tentatively opened the gate, surprised when it suddenly shook. There was another dog, a German Shepherd mix with a grey muzzle, behind the gate and he was trying to get out. I immediately fastened the latch. This freaked out the dog on my side of the gate. He started making German Shepherd noises, (hard to describe) leaped up and put his giant paws on my shoulders, and started licking my face. He really wanted back in his yard. Hoping the neighbors really did have two dogs, I opened the gate and he charged through. The big guy was ecstatic about being reunited with his friend.

Having survived my mission to keep the dog out of doggy jail, I went home and started to read the Denver Post. It was a shock when I opened the newspaper and saw my friend's picture. Kathy lives in Ohio and has early-onset Alzheimer's. The Associated Press distributed a story about her being one of the first volunteers for a "brain pacemaker" that was surgically implanted. I have a friend in Colorado who has Parkinson's Disease, had the same sort of device implanted and is doing great. Kathy had told me about the study and the operation, and said she was going to be on Ohio television, but now she's gone national. Way to go, Kathy.

Kathy at the Cabin

Bibliophiles and Authors

I had a good weekend, which is pretty normal for me. On Saturday, I went to coffee with a guy who used to be in our writing group. He went on to start an online magazine (you can find it in my blog's reading list) and he's still writing. It was great fun to talk about books with another bibliophile. Because of him, I'm considering attempting maybe someday to open one of Thomas Pynchon's larger books again. Pynchon is a big challenge to my ordinary brain.

Just between you and me, I think a lot of readers who "get" Pynchon are blowing smoke in more ways than one.

Then, on Sunday, we had dinner with friends, one of whom is self-publishing her novel. It's been quite a learning experience, but she's in the proof stage so the end is near. The book has a beautiful cover, looks professional throughout, and is well-written. The day will come when I review this book on my blog. The author refers to this experience as "having your face ripped off" but I hope to be slightly less Hannibal Lecter about it.
    
Because I have at least 30 books waiting to be read, I went out and bought a new memoir because of a spirited review I read online. The book is titled Beamish Boy, an intriguing title, and was written by Albert Flynn Desilver. Albert's bio makes him sound awesome, too. The book has great chapter titles. Naming chapters is so much better than using numbers, but coming up with clever titles is a skill I haven't mastered. Some of his titles are:

• Das Hell Frau
• Aggravated F-ing Meatheads
• East Jesus High School
• When in Doubt, Join a Cult
• Happy Happy, Empty Empty

Great stuff.

Books and Mind Travel

Our bookcases always seem to elicit a response from visitors, particularly non-readers. We don't have books because we want to seem uppity and pretentious, but because they are such good company.  I could never be bored with so much reading material, containing such a variety of subjects. And it's all right here in my home. And not all books contain stories. I can look at great paintings I'll never see in person. There is medical information, and books full of words to sustain me spiritually. Poetry and books to enhance my appreciation of said poetry. Books about crows, horses, writing, and quite a few about how to manage the blasted computer. If I can't get out into nature, I can wander somewhere desolate, full of natural wonders, as I sit and drink my coffee.

"These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice, as inaudible as the streams of sound conveyed day and night by electric waves beyond the range of our physical hearing; and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the far distant voice in time and space, and hear it speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart."

Written by Gilbert Highet

My Wednesday Morning

I woke up, happy that it's a lot warmer this morning. The trains were awful last night. It was like listening to a week's worth of train traffic in a four-hour period. It was almost impossible to sleep after 2:30.

Because of my poor sleep, I slept an hour later than usual. I turned on the news and found myself riveted by the plight of a woman in Portland, Oregon who was stuck between two buildings. She apparently was on a smoking break on a roof around 3:00 AM and slipped. I can only imagine her terror as she fell. It was cold and her feet weren't able to touch the ground because the buildings were closer together near the ground. Just before the news went to a commercial, the fire fighters had coated her in cooking oil, and were cutting off her clothing.

During the commercial, I went into the kitchen to pour my coffee, came back into the sunroom and, voila!, the woman had been extracted. She was crammed in there between two walls for four and a half hours. She was thrilled to be free, and looked like she wasn't seriously harmed by her ordeal.

It's so good to start the day with a happy ending.

A Frigid January Morning

The television news is continuing to report on the flu epidemic. They mentioned the recommendation that children sing a song while washing their hands to make sure they wash long enough to kill the germs. I was at the Denver Art Museum a couple of weeks ago and the sink sang the Happy Birthday song at me when I turned the water on. I wish my sink at home would sing to me, especially the kitchen sink where I spend a lot of my time.

Today is the third morning in a row with below zero temperatures. Makes me more sympathetic to the people who live in North Dakota. The Siberian Express is making all of this healthy cold air possible. The snow that fell last night is called Pixie Dust snow because it's extremely fine. I like it because you can sweep it with a broom, as opposed to shoveling.

Homeless shelters broke attendance records last night. This is the sort of temperature that can kill.

#

Boulder had a march last night for a recently murdered elk. The bull elk was a regular visitor in the Mapleton Hill neighborhood, but he was shot by a police officer on New Year's Eve, just before midnight. Boulder is famous for creating moral outrage over a prairie dog's relocation, but this was a big, beautiful animal who was well-known in the area.

A candlelight vigil followed with approximately 200 people singing Amazing Grace and We Will Overcome. (How come they didn't sing Born Free?) The march on Pearl Street was last night. People walked in silence while their cell phones played a recording of elk bugling. (who the hell thought of that?)

The police officers get the What the Hell Were You Thinking? award. The men involved have been suspended. An off-duty officer, who happens to own a taxidermy business, came right away and took away the elk's body. I can't wait to see what the consequences will be for this bit of manly-man tomfoolery.

I don't fault anyone for being upset about this senseless shooting, but I wish people would get just as outraged when a person is murdered.

Wild turkeys. Please don't tell the police.

No Bad Snow, Just Bad Drivers

I went to coffee in Louisville around noon, noticing the dark clouds to the south. Snow was predicted to begin around 4:00.  Flakes were floating down when I left to return home just before 3:00.  Just north of Lafayette, on 287, I hit blizzard conditions. It doesn't take much snow to cause havoc when there's a little wind. There were cars spinning out, sometimes one renegade vehicle would cause multiple spinning cars. This contagious wildness is common in horses, but I had no idea cars were so suggestible. Sadly, there was a pretty nasty looking accident just south of Longmont. The roads cleared as soon as I got in the city limits. I'm guessing it was a combination of the buildings blocking some of the wind, and that the snow hadn't reached Longmont yet.

I managed to gas up my car and visit the grocery store before going home, so I'm all set for the weekend.

The Norwegians have a saying that there is no bad weather, just bad clothing. I think the same general principle can be applied to drivers. Slow down. Don't do anything quickly. Drive like you have a cup of scalding coffee nestled on your lap. I'm going to broaden my criteria and say that driving with bald tires also makes you a bad driver.

There was a brown mini van heading south that went wildly out of control. I was at that stage where I had taken my foot off the gas and was saying "please, please, please" as I waited for the impact, but the mini van whirled back to the other side of the road and stopped. The driver was facing oncoming traffic but stopped was better than than spinning and, the last I saw, she was headed on her way.

11:30, headed south

4:00, a little snow in Longmont

Death Stalks a Corn Field

I was on my way to Denver yesterday when I spotted a huge skein of geese coming in for a landing in a field. As rotund as geese usually are, I wondered if they were worried at all about landing in the midst of sharp, dry corn stubble.

We once owned a small farm in Ohio. After living there a short time, I went looking for a horse to buy. I was basically broke. One day,  I located a skin-and-bones mare for sale. She was an ex-racehorse who hadn't made the cut. Someone bought her at auction and put in a depleted pasture with a large number of other horses who picked on her. Being at the bottom of the pecking order kept her away from the hay, and she was covered with injuries from being bitten and kicked. I bought her because she was so passive, helpless, and had such sad eyes. Her name was Ima Tyson.

Despite getting lots of hay and grain, she had trouble gaining weight. She was a cribber. Cribbing is a compulsive behavior where a horse bites on something, arches its neck, and sucks in air.  She also chewed wood. Both behaviors are bad for the horse's health. Sport horses are fed a diet that will give them high energy, then they are locked in a stall with no way to expend the overdose. They learn the behavior from other horses, too. I did all the usual things to prevent Ima from cribbing, but she usually found a way to indulge herself.

By fall, she was healthy enough to ride off the property. A neighboring farmer said I could ride in his 300 acre corn field. There was a dirt road running around the perimeter of the land, and it would be safer to ride someplace besides the side of the road. Steve was at work and the children were in school so I saddled her up and off we went.

It was a corn field that had already been harvested. The soft rustling noises from the breeze bothered Ima and she danced around a little until she got used to it. I remember hearing lots of birdsong as we walked along. I had never done anything but walk Ima while riding because she was still underweight.
My saddle was a slick English saddle and I was using a simple snaffle bit because it was the only type she had ever been ridden it. I was having a nice time.

That's when a pheasant burst out right in front of us.

Ima spun and took off at a dead run straight into the corn. The spin had thrown me off to one side. I still had my left foot in the stirrup but my right leg was across the top of the saddle. I was eye level with Ima's shoulder. The only thing keeping me attached to the terrified horse was my grip on the reins. It occurred to me that I had to be hurting her mouth, but I could see the sharp stalks of corn beneath me and didn't want to get impaled. She was running for her life, thundering across the field, away from the scary pheasant, convinced her death was imminent. Somehow, I slowly pulled myself back up into the saddle. Once I was vertical, I began calming the horse. Even a lousy racehorse is plenty fast, especially a horse bred to be the fastest in a quarter-mile sprint. She was wearing out and I was finally able to stop her. I tried to stand in the stirrups to slow her down, but my legs were shaking too bad to support me.

I walked her home in the cold air. She was exhausted and soaked with sweat. I thought about how all of my weight had been pulling on her mouth, but had no effect on her at all. A horse's mouth is supposed to be soft and sensitive. The hardness of her mouth was more evidence of her previous abuse.

She went on to become a good trail horse and gave many people their first ride on a horse. I had to sell her when we moved to Italy. She went to a good home with some ladies who wanted to continue using her as a trail horse.

January Festivity

The writing group, plus guests, held a belated holiday party yesterday. The weather was nice and parking was ample. Not knowing much about Longmont last year, I planned the party on the same night as the holiday parade and Santa's visit. Because we live so close to the downtown, parking was an unanticipated problem in our quiet neighborhood. We also had this year's gathering in the afternoon. I don't know about other people, but I liked the new time of day for our fun.

There was food, conversation, and a book exchange. I think I'm correct in saying the book exchange is everyone's favorite part. There were some unusual choices this year.

I've done my critiques for tomorrow night's writing group and I'm now officially working on the rewrite of my book. One of my resolutions for 2013 is to write on a daily basis. When I can manage this, it's so much easier to produce the pages. Even knowing what a difference it makes, it's still hard to adhere to the routine. But I'm trying to encourage a creative habit and, with the addition of a slight tendency of OCD, I might just be able to make my daily writing a personal necessity. Wish me luck.

Van Gogh

My daughter and I attended the Van Gogh exhibition at the Denver Art Museum today. We were in the first group to enter so the crowd was somewhat bearable. It was an impressive collection of Van Gogh's work, loaned to DAM from 60 private and public collections. The theme was his evolution as an artist.

I had no idea his painting career was so short. Approximately ten years for such an amazing body of work.

The past month has been rich with artistic manna. (Wow. Manna was a technically correct word that just does not fit into this post. When I was growing up, I bought Manna Pro feed for my horse. I haven't thought about that in a long time. But I digress. I can see a lot of that happening in my future.)

Back to artistic inspiration (a better word choice). I received some lovely books for Christmas, including a good book of photography with interesting work by an assortment of photographers. One book on Norse Mythology has some classic art work in it that I remember from when my children were young. There is the artistic side of reading and poetry that is always a part of my life, and now this excellent art exhibit. Going to the art museum to see any of the work is an excellent way to have what Julia Cameron would call an Artist Date. It's a surefire way to engage the right side of your brain. The only thing better than a trip to the art museum would be to have coffee with your writer friends at the art museum. Sadly, the coffee cart near the bridge is gone and has been replaced with a children's play area.

Friday is My Favorite Flavor of the Week

Today was Coffee With Some Writers Day. I already have a thing about Friday because it heralds the arrival of the weekend. It's psychological and not a concrete thing to be happy about, but it works for me, and I know I'm going to be happy about something at least once a week. Win win.

I feel more enthused about writing after indulging in some shop talk with other writers. I came home and started working on the rewrite of my book. Page one. Sadly, I only got as far as the header and the first line.

But one person said the nicest thing to me today. He said all of us, at coffee, have strong personalities. I asked for clarification that I was included as someone with a strong personality. He said yes. I'm so damn flattered! I like the idea of possessing a strong personality. I've felt faded away and invisible for years (with occasional outbursts of obnoxiousness) so this sounds like good news. Fridays are so awesome!

If I was a bird, this is what I'd look like.

Houseguests and Fish: I Like Both

One thing I like about having a houseguest is the way they disrupt my routine, forcing me to do things differently. As I age, I find myself getting too comfortable with routines, and even my expectations have become almost mechanical. I don't expect to drive up into the mountains on a typical weekend because I know I'll hate the traffic, and the long day will wear me out. But I'll do it if I have a guest to entertain. I'll have a great time showing off our beautiful mountains and plains, and I'll cherish the photos and the memories of our time together. Moreover, I'll spend the day wondering why I don't do this more often, with our without a visitor.

I'm going to add "Encourage people to visit" to my list of things to do (and what not to do) when I'm old. Older. Really old. And I really do have a list.

New Year's Eve 2012

My Japanese houseguest woke up on December 31st and asked if we could return to Park Meadows Mall for more shopping. I had a moment of panic as I remembered our previous visit. Images of the crush of people, the constant noise, and the hell of getting out of the parking lot all flashed through my brain. I tried to think of someplace, anyplace that would serve as a substitute. For some reason, Cherry Creek Mall jumped into my memory and then into my mouth. (figuratively speaking, of course) I made the suggestion, he quickly checked out the mall on his phone, and Big Smile! The Cherry Creek Mall would be acceptable. (Score!)

The most amusing part of my two hours roaming the mall, was when a man walked by me with his one pant leg ripped. He was in his 60s, conservatively dressed, and walking at a normal pace. What caught my attention was that his left pant leg was ripped up the back, all the way up to mid-thigh. The pieces were flapping as his walked, so it wasn't like he hadn't noticed. I could see his black crew socks, white skin and a great deal more of his thigh than I was prepared for. I had to admire his aplomb. How the hell do you rip your pants like that at an upscale mall? I truly wanted to know the answer but didn't have the cojones to ask.

In the evening, I made dinner for the family. The younger people were going to a New Year's Eve party in Westminster. My job was to fix up beds for their later return, babysit my granddaughter, then pick up the partygoers after midnight. I suspect the party was the highlight of our young guest's visit. He was having a wonderful time when I arrived just in time for the countdown at midnight. There was a lot of laughing, hugging, and dancing going on. The poor guy had to get up to go to the airport about 3 hours after going to bed, but he woke up as cheerful and pleasant as ever. I don't think I've ever met a more congenial person.