Days of Yore

I can feel the excitement. The pure, drained exhaustion of determination. And it sucks. But I'm pretty geeked about it.

I've decided I'm staying up as late as I need to in order to bust out this Dexter outline to meet my deadline tomorrow. Even if it means pulling an all-nighter. I lost the ability to pull an all-nighter somewhere around 23 or 24. I was in grad school, and I decided to stay up and finish a paper in the manner I had countless times in undergrad. I remember the verve of it. The mini-event of it. The pleasure in the exhaustion. But at that point, in grad school, my body just wasn't having it anymore. I'd be determined as hell, but it just wasn't in me anymore. Maybe I'd lost the desire. I don't know. I found grad school to be pretty accommodating to loafing, procrastination, aimlessness, and the extreme focusing or misdirection of efforts. It was easy enough to be up all hours of the night if one was on set, or doing something pretty inane (like drinking, flirting, or trying to peel your friend off of the bathroom floor), but to stay up and write a paper? Nuh-uh. I was perfectly willing to sleep on a bed-of-nails bench while my After Effects project rendered over the span of twelve f-ing hours, but forget about proof-reading or executing an outline on Les Enfants Terribles.

But I can remember doing it with aplomb at K. "You've got a paper on Kierkegaard? I've got a paper on Artaud. Let's walk to Jimmy Johns, pound back some caffeinated beverages and then get started around 2am." Done deal. I remember 5am really well. That was one of those lines that separated the boys from the men. Or those crazy girls who would run laps in the dorm hallways in the early morning to keep their blooding moving and all conscious-like. There was still room for a few hours of sleep before a morning class or turn-in deadline at 5 am... Sleep or swim...

Working all night. When nothing in the world sounded better than being asleep. Remember how good your shitty extra long twin bed sheets felt? Sunshine, music, the yapping of birds -- it didn't matter. You had the sleep of the just, the vindicated, the accomplished. I miss that time when sleep could be something final. When going to bed didn't necessarily mean the short break before another day at work. When there were finish lines, a sense of accomplishment. Recently I feel like those poor horses in Central Park with the horse-blinders and the anachronistically dressed twats on their backs. Or Forrest Gump. I just keep running.

But tonight I've got a deadline, and a finish line. And I've got caffeinated beverages. A long night ahead of me. And a whole day tomorrow to feel like crap and curse my nostalgic gumption. But I'll probably enjoy that too.

Anyway. I've got a lot to do. Maybe I should start writing my outline instead of in my blog. But, then again, 2am's looking pretty good.

ps. And it's one day until catholic camp. Might as well be worthlessly tired for that.

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