What is it, exactly, that attracts me to these characters and situations? When I consider that there may be some sort of larger pattern, I come up with this: I am attracted to those who do not sleep, who forget to eat, and lose all common sense in pursuit of some dream, whatever that may be. In my life, there are always people who share bathrooms, who get up in the middle of the night, who don't bathe for days on end, who find reserves of energy that most normal people would balk at. How is it that I, who dream longingly of routine, order and sense filling my life, constantly end up near these passionate folk, without ever really sacrificing my tendency to sleep eight hours each night, or my habit of eating excellent breakfasts?

For context, it is now 21:43 on a Sunday, and I am lazily considering sleep as an option for the immediate future, like the coming hour.

I suppose it has always been a dream of mine to be one of the lucky few who need not sleep.

The marina by night can be graceful, symmetrical and a deep blue laced with golden lights; or it can be almost miniature, seeming far away, or off in some unused corner of my imagination. The sound is peaceful, with the occasional dull ring of rig on mast, running water, and slowly unfolding waves rocking it all into a rousing chorus of clicks, beats and the lap of water on shore. There is laughter in several of the homes around us, and the sounds of cooking.

Most of all it's wonderful to be here. Everything becomes about the water. Watching the cars and sirens on Sixth Avenue spin by the glass front of St. Joseph's last night, onstage with a chamber orchestra during a long passage of solo piano, it was as if the whole church and audience were on a speeding boat.

27 June 22:09

Two sounds as I begin to type this evening, just shy of the Fourth of July: in the distance, a single firework; behind my left shoulder, a fish jumps, then another in front of me, and a few more just behind the stern of my lovely boat, which I am suddenly feeling obliged to begin addressing as a lady-boat.

There is for our neutered language an odd tradition of referring to inanimate objects as gendered, most often female: I've heard this used for anything from violins to objets de collection to bicycles and body parts. She's a sweetheart, D. pronounced after trying my old blue Raleigh in a parking garage. She's coming back!, a heavier friend of mine said of his stomach. She's a good boat, V. often says, patting her Hamptons-found sailboat as if it were a thoroughbred she knows well.