IN PRAISE OF MORNINGS
Sober psychedelic mornings
©Eva Munz
BLITZ 18
I’ve always been a night owl. Growing up, I let books kidnap me to more adventurous worlds. Sometimes I even kidnapped myself and went sleepwalking. A few times, I found myself in a nightgown at sleepy neighbor’s doors babbling from the depths of my childhood dreams. On school days, my brother and I would spoon up cereal, glassy-eyed, rereading the print on Kellogg's cereal boxes. The radio always seemed to be playing Cat Stevens's Morning Has Broken. Daytime reality and the associated learning seemed like a necessary evil.
Once my brother asked me about the meaning of the title in German. Since I was two years his senior, he assumed that since I was the only one in the family who understood Italian, I knew every other foreign language. I tried not to disappoint his expectations, and since breaking meant brechen and erbrechen being sick, I translated the title as the morning has vomited. My brother seemed satisfied and added a plausible explanation.
“The sun,” he said, “doesn't feel like getting up either, so it throws up over the horizon.”
My deep suspicion of early risers and teetotalers lasted most of my adult life. I socialized at night, and dancing was my passion. I started my 16-week-training marathon training program with Adidas Runners NYC in July. I had to leave the house early twice a week to get back to work on time. But more importantly, to beat the New York heat that turned the air too sticky to move. I’d just returned from a trip to Europe, and the associated jet lag came in handy. I woke up with the first rays of sun refracting across my bedroom wall in a rainbow prism. Lying in bed, the pyramid shape reminded me of Pink Floyd's The Wall cover, the musical drama movie by Alan Pakula, and the anti-authoritarian lyrics of the song Another Brick in the Wall. I was transported right back into my childhood.
My phone rang, and my Bangkok cinematographer, N, whose intellectual sensitivity to light and shadow has always impressed and unnerved me, patiently explained the phenomenon. The wavelengths of the colors, the refractions, and the spectrum colors.
“When light hits a prism,” she explained, “it is split into its constituent colors, which are then bent at different angles and emerge from the other side of the prism as a rainbow of colors red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. The colors are always present but rarely visible to the human eye.”
N is a hardcore Buddhist, runner, and early riser and advised me to follow a strict morning iPhone diet for the training phase. No text messages, emails, or headlines, she insisted. Best to meditate three times a day.
I refined my coffee game to shave precious minutes off my morning routine. I brewed coarse coffee overnight in a French press, poured the java over crystal clear ice cubes (the ones the Japanese favor to cool expensive whiskeys), and watched a dash of oat milk paint psychedelic streaks into the concoction. Invigorated by the potent drink, I get dressed and hop onto one of those new ugly electric Citibikes. The bikes have a similar effect on me as my cold brew or, say, a Tesla. These inventions may be effortless and powerful, but it feels like cheating.
These days, I leave the headphones at home and try to hear, see, and smell the awakening city during my morning runs. Every rain shower is dear to me. The miles fly by, and an hour later, I arrive at my desk thoroughly refreshed. At first, I struggled with the early bedtimes. But once I resolved not to drink alcohol during training, everything began to fall into place and triggered a healthy domino effect. With a consistent sleep cycle, I found time to meditate, ate better, was in an obnoxiously good mood, and despite the amount of time dedicated to training, I felt I had saved some. I ended up being more productive and spending more time with friends. After a good night's sleep, I often call Europe before leaving the house. Now, I cringe at sunsets and late nights under the influence, oozing nostalgia. It seems so stuffy, slow, and dated, like patriarchy.
The other day, I called my friend K in Berlin. It was almost noon over there.
“I've had a long night,” he said. He sounded like the chains of a tank grinding into Donbas.
Was he successful? I asked; he was a terminal womanizer.
He cleared his throat. “What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
I chatted about my accelerated productivity, light refractions, Buddhism, and running. How the future-facing morning was open to new and fresh ideas and change.
“Wow, your running has turned into a full-blown addiction,” he said and suddenly fell silent. “Let's talk another time. I think I’m going to be sick.”
September 2022
