Insomniac Almanac -- Chapter Eleven

   Back at the old stand - Three AM in front of the computer.  I wonder why it seems so much longer booting up at three AM.

   I slept all right until three. But now I am awake and thinking about my class tomorrow, the dial-a-ride bus, and how to confirm my pick up.  They let me sit in front of the old folks home last week, finally arriving an hour and half late, and then leaving before I could talk to the driver.

   Also I am thinking about my class work tomorrow.  I plan to study colors, finding how to select complimentary colors without a color wheel, only a mathematical chart.  I plan to make a tangle of colored wires, or strings, or yarn, and then test the various colors to find harmonious combinations.

   My teacher, who is my daughter, has a wonderful color sense, and I will try to tap her knowledge on how to choose good combinations.  I wonder if her good color skills are inate or whether they come from the hours of observation and practice she has put in on them. I remember her teen years and the living room floor covered with posters and projects.

   She is married to a musician, who is as skilled in his art as she is in hers. His skill is the result of years of study and practice, but he comes from a musical family.  Is there some inate, in-born tendancy?  When people tell him,  "Oh, I'd give anything to have your skill in music," he thinks, "Oh, really, would you give up all your play time as a kid, and put it in, sitting at a piano, practicing tedious scales hour upon hour? I did." 

   I wonder what MY inate skills are, of if I have any. If I could go back in time, and talk to the youngster who was me, and tell him to hone and sharpen his natural talents, whatever they may have been, would he?  Probably not.  He was too busy with his friends, putting out a weekly mimeographed newspaper, The Sunmont Bee, or broadcasting music from his record player to friend's radio via a long wire stretched to his radio.

   Suddenly I'm chuckling.  We had to string the wire across a neighbor's yard without his knowing.  Or maybe he did know, and just tolerated the kids on either side of him.

   Maybe I did hone my inate skills. I love to write.  Could that have been in-born?  I love to write so much that I get up in the middle of the night to do it. "Chuck, I'd give anything to write like you." 

   Oh, yes? Would you give up precious hours of sleep at night, getting out of a soft bed to sit in front of a computer, tediously typing, correcting, and rewriting?  Well, I do.