...too early to be awake...

Howling wind, strange (forgotten) dreams, the need to pee: something wakes me at 3AM, and somehow bears with it the certain knowledge that there will be no more sleep tonight. I get out of bed, putter about on the computer for a bit, then - when browning lights make me fear for a blackout and possible damage to the computer - shut it down, get dressed, and - rather than awake my oversensitive, late-rising downstairs neighbour (who has politely requested I not bathe in the mornings) with the noise of cooking, I make my way to Maple Ridge's new Tim Horton's, to try to negotiate the breakfast menu with the ESL student behind the counter. When I ask him "what's on the 'breakfast sandwich,' he offers me a dizzying number of ingredient combinations, without ever once telling me what the usual is. Perhaps there is no usual? I end up ordering egg and sausage on a bagel - and getting exactly that, no tomato, lettuce, butter, spread of any sort, or any of the other accountrements that one might expect on a sandwich. He misses that I request hash browns, though I ask twice, and fills my coffee to the brim, without regard for my plan to add cream (which comes in three tiny creamers), adding a plastic lid that I don't want or need, since I've told him I plan to eat in. I can never quite get with the Timmy's program... but I eat, reading Erich Fromm's The Art Of Loving and sorting out the garbage in my pockets, which was reaching critical mass...

I arrive at the West Coast Express station - wind whipping rain vertically under the hood of my coat - shortly before 5AM, to discover that the station is not prepared for early risers; they have boards with all manner of schedules printed on them, but they're locked up with the ticket machines, and I can't read them through the barrier - though I lean in and squint - to discover when the first train leaves for the city. No other signs are posted anywhere in the station to tell me; apparently, if its off hours, it's none of your business. When the attendant arrives to unlock things - eyeing me suspiciously as I pace on the platform - he ignores a direct question as to what the time is, perhaps taking me for a nut, so early am I there; I feel obliged to flash my monthly farecard at him, and reassure him that I am, in fact, a commuter, which doesn't make him much more sociable. He putters about sweeping up garbage while I check the time on the ticket machines, check the schedule (now that I can get close to it), and find a corner that is lit and sheltered from the wind, there to lean and read and wait.

The Fraser River would be lovely to see on such a day - the water choppy and dramatic - but it's still dark, and remains so when the train arrives, at 5:44. I spent the whole of my weekend either with my parents or running chores for them (including taking out the garbage for the building and setting up Sunday coffee upstairs, since my father is still officially the caretaker). It hasn't quite gotten to feel normal yet, spending this much time with them, but my father is getting sicker and sicker - bone thin, fatigued, and almost unable to eat - so it seems the right thing to do. I bought him a Johnny Cash DVD and we watched it together, and he enjoyed it a great deal...