Soup for an Insomniac.
Last updated: April 27, 2025
Twenty-nine hours. That's how long I've been awake. I could blame the full moon, big as a gleaming white soup plate hanging in the clear desert sky last night. Or the pollen. The hostile spiky spewing of hundreds of junipers rooted round our plucky little casita. Every time I drifted toward the promise of sleep I would sneeze straight up and fumble in the dark for a Kleenex, my throat as raw as Tom Waits' vocal chords after belting, Make It Rain. We're talking ragged.
So excuse me if I keep today's ramblings short and sweet. I'm hovering outside my body. Any moment now, I might spin off with the tumbleweeds and roll down the dirt road to the highway. I might not even mind, if I end up tumbling west, rolling into the City of Angels in my sleep, snoring down Sunset Boulevard all the way to Ocean Avenue and south to Venice Beach where I live a parallel life in an alternate universe surfing at dawn.
And if you see me, give me a sign.
Any sign will do.
But before I spin toward the crooked dream highway I'll leave you with a perfect soup for spring. Stir it up when the blustery winds blow. xo
