My fitness watch tracks my sleep.
Not only did I not get enough sleep last night, I had no dreams.
I did not think, the world could be heaven if we would only help each other.
If we would only always be kind.
To ourselves, each other, to all lifeforms.
I did not think, being rich would be nice.
I did not think, capitalism replaced with kindness and generosity, not chaos.
Or peace, love and understanding.
Or if they only liked me.
Or having beehives would be nice.
Last night, sleeping, I just slept.
Mattress, head on my pillow, down comforter, cat on top of that.
Just existed there in the dark.
It was not even a great release, not a liberation.
It was nothing, not even nothing.
No thoughts of this is good or this could be better, or even this is the way it is.
No blessings, no curses.
Not rejection or acceptance.
Just floating there in the darkness.
Not even floating.
Just being there in the darkness.
Not even darkness.
Not even being.
Tag Archives: dreaming
Honey, if you want to be dreamy, you gotta get up early.
The oneirologist has this epiphany climbing the subway stairs, way over on one side by the handrail because a train has just disgorged a load of passengers who are all coming down the stairs like the oneirologist is a salmon.
And as he climbs he watches them and some look relaxed and some, one mother in particular, are hurrying. The woman is hurrying and dragging a little kid by the hand, as if they have two minutes to reach a connecting ride. And the oneirologist thinks, you can be efficient or you can be dreamy. Then he thinks of his daughter, who is both efficient and dreamy. So he sort of revises his thought to be less absolutist. If you want a fast commute in the morning, you have to be organized. If you want to be poky and dreamy, though, you have to get up early and allow yourself a lot of time.
The oneirologist couldn’t live any other way. This is why he goes to bed so early at night, so he can get up early and dink around.
The oneirologist likes to watch what happens to the light outside as he drinks his coffee.
The oneirologist likes to listen to the evolution of the sounds in the house as people and animals and garbage trucks start their days.
The oneirologist likes to do some stretches and pushups.
The oneirologist likes to scramble eggs.
He likes to write a little in a journal.
Last night, on his way home from meeting a friend at an advent market and drinking hot winter punch and catching up on things, the oneriologist was accosted by a lot of beggars. The first one got all his change, the ones after that were out of luck.
In one instance, as he waited for a street car, being accosted by one beggar prevented him from being accosted by another beggar. He watched a woman, who was giving off strong vibes of psychological trouble, preparing herself to accost him, when a man swooped in from out of nowhere and began telling him a story. This is known as the narrative method of panhandling.
Unfortunately, the oneirologist is hard of hearing, and it was noisy, and the man was speaking fast, and in dialect, so the oneirologist resorted to empty phrases to keep the conversation rolling:
Is that right?
Oh, that really sucks!
Man, no fooling?
He wanted to give the man money, but was out of change and said so. He apologized a second time as the man left. The man had his pride and said, no problem!
There but for two months salary and a suit go I, thought the oneirologist.
Two months salary, a suit and manners. He thought. And a bath, or a makeover.
The oneirologist recalled a recent visit to a jewelry store to buy a Christmas present for someone who had, fortunately, specified exactly (exactly!) what she wanted.
The sales clerks had ignored him for fifteen minutes. Normally, around Christmas time they are swarming you, right?
They would have ignored him for longer, until he left, but he grabbed one by the suspenders, or whatever, and dragged her to the brightly-lit glass display case and said, ‘that one there,’ and made his purchase.
It had been a Saturday, and on the weekends the oneirologist dresses in a more casual manner, and had looked rather bummy right then.
Even a five, if he’d had a five, he would have given it to the guy.