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Last night, after leaving the veal-fatting pen long behind... I came very close to being visited by a familiar old demon... insomnia.
Some time ago, It took up a prolonged residence with me, in an old farm dependency that I was renting with an old college chum. Dating a recently-separated co-worker was largely to blame... the baggage that I was carrying around, at the time, paled in comparison. That learning experience earned me about two months of the following scenario: collapsing in bed, exhausted... immediately to sleep. Only to waken, five to ten minutes later, feeling as if I'd slept for hours. Not to sleep again. To be repeated daily. So it was in the early morning hours... I'd gotten all burrowed in the quilts, began reading the non-fiction account of the rise and fall of swinging London, and dozed. For about ten minutes. Wide awake, thereafter. Brain on TurboCharge. Some deep-breathing exercises later, back to Slumberland. Oofah. Don't want to go there, again. There is something "other" about waking late (or early) into the night. Maybe it's just because the system gets a jumpstart... faster heart rate, crushing silence, or something, but the thoughts that cross my mind take on hugely sinister importance. Akin to panic mode. Must be some kind of primordial response, fight or flight, that our knuckle-dragging ancestors fused into our DNA. Whatever... just as long at it doesn't become a regular thing. S'il vous pla�t. Back into the pre-work wanderings after regaining consciousness, I stopped into a "local" (for the Gulag, anyway) "health-conscious" grocery for some raw fish to satisfy my animal cravings. Lordy, the place was crawling with the most wired people... careening into displays, stampeding for the checkouts, eyes scrupulously avioding contact with other eyes. Those folks, in serious need of a beer... or a cigarette... or something not good for them. There must be a price to pay for living too cleanly... from my perspective, anyway. Last stop before the slammer, the Volvo dealership. One spindly rubber gasket away from putting an end to my exertions, only one place to find it. Bauhaus, yuppie-style. I could feel the security cameras dogging my steps. Clothed in jeans, black turtleneck, ratty west German military vest festooned with ancient vintage racing patches... altogether not what is expected traversing the showroom, en route to the parts window. So be it. Besides, there wasn't a Scandinavian to be seen in the place... at least I have a pedigree. Of sorts. This must be about not being in my "right" place. As of a few minutes ago, winter is knocking on the door... icy needles of rain, interspersed with random fat flakes of snow plummeting from the mercury-vapor colored sky. One consolation... sleep should'nt be difficult to achieve tonight. Knowing that it's foul as buggerall outdoors is a great sedative. Hopefully. |
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