Sleep Wars

 First of all, this isn't us...but it could be. I recognize her facial expression. Also: I don't sleep in anything nearly as fetching as that. My nightshirt says: I am here to sleep. Please let me. 

But sleep is a problem. We've worked out an accusation system whereby I accuse my spouse of snoring, and he counters by accusing me of snoring. No one can win a battle based on mutual accusation. So I recorded him last night.

After I had acquired evidence, I turned over and fell asleep, only to be poked on the shoulder moments later, and told "Turn over. You're snoring." I grabbed my phone/video recording and shrieked, "This! This is what YOU do!" (deftly skirting counter accusation). He listened and then said, simply, "That's not me. That's you." I asked him how and why such a preposterous thing could be true. It was dark, but I assume he shrugged. 

So I made another recording. Then another before going back to sleep. Then I felt the poke in the ribs again. I was immediately on guard and accused him of gaslighting me. I threatened to move into the guest room if he persisted. We both faced our respective walls and seethed back to sleep. 

I played the recordings for him again while we were having our coffee this morning. He was unmoved. My triumph fell. We are at an impasse. 

What would the woman in the photo do? What DID she do? Did it end in divorce? Did she smother him with her pillow? Did she smile and say, "Awww. He's sleeping soundly." The latter? Unlikely. I know her expression.   

The Rebel

 

Defiant sheep, what makes you different? Are there alpha sheep? Are you more in tune with your feelings? 

My Secret Horoscope

 

This morning my secret astrologer-cum-muse (that can't be right) sent telepathic beams of optimism to me. I awoke feeling more alert than usual, but then panicked for a moment because I wondered if this is what non-morning people experience just before heart failure. It's the pre-dawn hour and I shouldn't be sentient yet. The Other brought me coffee, and I settled down after checking my pulse. I know now that I must read an Emily Dickinson poem, and this will send me into some spiral of creative ecstasy that will break the spell of literary paralysis I experienced whilst in the Facebook matrix. I also know this is an auspicious day for reflection, light calisthenics and papier-mâché. 

The Prosecution Rests.

 

Defendant failed to walk approximately 48 inches to back door, and further 18 paces to outside bin with trash bag. We recommend domestic service and corporal punishment. 

Mama Mia!

 My favorite uncle wrote me the other day. The time stamp on his text told me it was 98 minutes after the cocktail hour, so I knew there would be an unreasonable request. This is part of his whimsical charm. Currently, he's obsessed with the movie Mama Mia! and in particular, the song "Thank You for the Music" (ABBA, of course). He asked if I would learn the song and record it for him. As if I could touch Amanda Seyfried's belt-it-out vocals. I agreed because I hate to disappoint.

I am like a dog and live only in the present. I ordered the sheet music on the spot and then forgot about the whole thing until the score arrived in the mail. Then: panic. Alarm. Resignation. I cursed a little when I noticed an unreasonable number of sharps in the piece, and then sat down to try to peck it out. I read music at a third grade level. Then I listened to the song again. I too love ABBA, but this is not a song that trips out of the mouth whilst one is showering in the same way Dancing Queen, Fernando, and Waterloo do. It's stage-y. Has weird and unexpected twists and turns...and well, I don't like it much. Maybe it will grow on me. I said I'd learn it. I'll let you know how it goes.

What is this? My hand?

 

It's 46 degrees on this fine October morning. I had to wrestle the primitive boiler thing that lives in the basement to get the radiators to alter the climate. I'm fine now. There are colder temps on the horizon. By then I will have unpacked many fleecy things. Yes.

I want to say more, but what can I tell you about plans that haven't yet come to fruition? My piano is out of tune. I tried to play things but forgot what the notes mean. Then my muscle memory coughed up some Beethoven, a little Mozart, and some progression that's been in the recesses of my brain since I was six years old. During the bad time...the Facebook time...I was a stroke victim. Now I'm learning how to do the things again. Put spoon to mouth. Make fingers wrap around pen. Form letters. Make fingers play something on instrument. Form sentences. Eat green jello-o and await progress therapy. 

Sunday Bloody Sunday

 I woke up. Got out of bed. Dragged a comb across my head. No. Another said that. I only did two of those things. Coffee (life-force) is more important than personal hygiene. I think this is Day 5 sans the social media demon. But wait. Is THIS also social media? I guess it is. But it's a gentle place where the Eloi gather to eat passion fruit and lounge around in inadequate attire. We needn't trouble ourselves with worldly things in here.

This morning I woke up at six. I was stressed because in my pre-waking dream I was forced to use origami currency for all economic transactions. I didn't know how. And furthermore, I don't know about money in real life, so my brain had no right to shame me. 

In the pre-dawn hour I made a list of tasks. It was satisfying but unnecessary. My only task today is to feel all the things. And maybe watch films that upset me.