The Edge of Sleep
I took a long nap this afternoon, well yesterday afternoon. I was feeling kind of tired. Feeling that way a lot lately. So, here it is 3:30 in the morning according to the clock on the screen and for the past little while I've been on the edge of sleep, just barely asleep, but not quite awake - and dreaming.
It's the kind of sleep where you almost have a little control over the content of the dream, but not quite conscious control. Usually, the edge of sleep happens as I'm just falling asleep and thinking about things and then suddenly start and realize the thoughts had turned to dreams. Sometimes, if I'm having trouble going to sleep, which happens often when I travel, I start to think about things and then the dreaming starts and sleep takes over.
But, the images tonight were disturbing for some reason and quite vivid, so I finally forced myself awake to stop the flow. Mary and I watched a zombie movie - The Night of Living Sean, or something like that. It was a Benson recommendation. It wasn't scary or funny, but it was full of blood and guts. Best to get up, I thought, so here I sit. The dogs agreed so at my feel the lay. And staring into the glowing beacon of my computer screen I write. Here is a story that flowed into my semi-consciousness for no particular reason.
"I had a lot of fears when I was young, but my bed was always a place where I felt safe. When I was young, I had this bed with a metal headboard and footboard. It was part of a bunk bend set, so both ends stuck up quite higher than the mattress. I guess there were really just ends of the bed. The bed was industrial age, affordable for the middle class, circa 1950, quasi art nouveau. It would probably be chic today. The metal was painted black and had a thick, steel frame all around. It was always cold to the touch. The panel on the end was a sort of thin sheet metal. And, in the metal head and footboard were small, square holes.
I used the industrial looking bed for games of various sorts. I plugged wires into the holes like a telephone operator. It was the control panel of a submarine. It was a secret panel through which to see people and things and not be seen. But, the thing I remember most is the feel of my fingers in the holes. The holes were square and too small to get a finger into, but they kind of squeezed the tips just a bit. I have this visceral image of sitting on the bed with the tips of my eight fingers pressed into the holes and a feeling of contentment - no not just that. There is also a feeling of being suspended in time like the moment will end when I remove my fingers. And it does. I felt fearless in my bed, playing imaginary games by myself, day dreaming of places and things."
I have a bad habit today of picking at my finger nails. Not biting, just picking. Mary pretty much broke me of the habit when we were dating by giving me a nail file. If I keep my nails filed, I leave them alone. But, if they get long and I get unsettled, off they come. Not all at once - a good fingernail could last a whole meeting with a lawyer. And, never a thumbnail, just the eight other fingers. I carry a nail file when I travel. In the old days you could carry the kind that Mary gave me. Now, it can't be metal, but that's all right. A good paper file works just fine.
It's the pressure on the fingernails, I realize now for the first time in my life, the feeling of my fingers in the little square holes. The pressure is from the side, just like the little square holes as I press my fingers a little too hard. Apparently, the pressure on the fingertips makes me feel safe and suspended and lets me get through whatever is bothering me.
That's the story that I was telling in my dream although the insight came after I was awake, sitting here, writing this. I was imaging myself an actor and I was giving a speech to impress a crowd of others. And I told that story. It's a preamble to something more meaningful in the dream. A little personal story, a bit of odd self-disclosure to set the tone from some profound personal expression. A vehicle to draw in the audience. But, now, it just ends that way. There is nothing more, just an image - a feeling.
It's a little crack in a door that lets some light shine in. But, what door and were does it lead? One answer raises a dozen questions. Why was I afraid as a child? I don't know the answer to that. Well, I really do kind of, but that's too much self-disclosure even at this hour. And, its not really anything I can deal with anyway. That door has kind of closed and there is just a little sadness left behind. Why an actor? That's pretty easy, it's how I see my professional life - like duh - come on, the Jury Jester? A job that's not quite a job, but seems to pay pretty well? Acting like someone other than who I am?
There are lots of strange noises in the house at this hour. Creaks, cracks, the humming of appliances, and the stillness of nothing. A little white noise behind the sounds of night as the temperature drops and the house adjusts. There is a little bit of life in this house - not in a bad way, more like it has character. I'm feeling a little sad right now and there is nothing to be sad about, as far as I know. Maybe it was the movie. Maybe not. I don't have any big regrets about my adult life so far, but there is something about my childhood that has left a nagging little tug. Certainly not a regret - you can't regret a childhood when the choices are not really yours. I wasn't a sad child, but there is sadness about it as I think back. I don't think I really want to deal with that just now. So, I guess I'll dream on.
It's the kind of sleep where you almost have a little control over the content of the dream, but not quite conscious control. Usually, the edge of sleep happens as I'm just falling asleep and thinking about things and then suddenly start and realize the thoughts had turned to dreams. Sometimes, if I'm having trouble going to sleep, which happens often when I travel, I start to think about things and then the dreaming starts and sleep takes over.
But, the images tonight were disturbing for some reason and quite vivid, so I finally forced myself awake to stop the flow. Mary and I watched a zombie movie - The Night of Living Sean, or something like that. It was a Benson recommendation. It wasn't scary or funny, but it was full of blood and guts. Best to get up, I thought, so here I sit. The dogs agreed so at my feel the lay. And staring into the glowing beacon of my computer screen I write. Here is a story that flowed into my semi-consciousness for no particular reason.
"I had a lot of fears when I was young, but my bed was always a place where I felt safe. When I was young, I had this bed with a metal headboard and footboard. It was part of a bunk bend set, so both ends stuck up quite higher than the mattress. I guess there were really just ends of the bed. The bed was industrial age, affordable for the middle class, circa 1950, quasi art nouveau. It would probably be chic today. The metal was painted black and had a thick, steel frame all around. It was always cold to the touch. The panel on the end was a sort of thin sheet metal. And, in the metal head and footboard were small, square holes.
I used the industrial looking bed for games of various sorts. I plugged wires into the holes like a telephone operator. It was the control panel of a submarine. It was a secret panel through which to see people and things and not be seen. But, the thing I remember most is the feel of my fingers in the holes. The holes were square and too small to get a finger into, but they kind of squeezed the tips just a bit. I have this visceral image of sitting on the bed with the tips of my eight fingers pressed into the holes and a feeling of contentment - no not just that. There is also a feeling of being suspended in time like the moment will end when I remove my fingers. And it does. I felt fearless in my bed, playing imaginary games by myself, day dreaming of places and things."
I have a bad habit today of picking at my finger nails. Not biting, just picking. Mary pretty much broke me of the habit when we were dating by giving me a nail file. If I keep my nails filed, I leave them alone. But, if they get long and I get unsettled, off they come. Not all at once - a good fingernail could last a whole meeting with a lawyer. And, never a thumbnail, just the eight other fingers. I carry a nail file when I travel. In the old days you could carry the kind that Mary gave me. Now, it can't be metal, but that's all right. A good paper file works just fine.
It's the pressure on the fingernails, I realize now for the first time in my life, the feeling of my fingers in the little square holes. The pressure is from the side, just like the little square holes as I press my fingers a little too hard. Apparently, the pressure on the fingertips makes me feel safe and suspended and lets me get through whatever is bothering me.
That's the story that I was telling in my dream although the insight came after I was awake, sitting here, writing this. I was imaging myself an actor and I was giving a speech to impress a crowd of others. And I told that story. It's a preamble to something more meaningful in the dream. A little personal story, a bit of odd self-disclosure to set the tone from some profound personal expression. A vehicle to draw in the audience. But, now, it just ends that way. There is nothing more, just an image - a feeling.
It's a little crack in a door that lets some light shine in. But, what door and were does it lead? One answer raises a dozen questions. Why was I afraid as a child? I don't know the answer to that. Well, I really do kind of, but that's too much self-disclosure even at this hour. And, its not really anything I can deal with anyway. That door has kind of closed and there is just a little sadness left behind. Why an actor? That's pretty easy, it's how I see my professional life - like duh - come on, the Jury Jester? A job that's not quite a job, but seems to pay pretty well? Acting like someone other than who I am?
There are lots of strange noises in the house at this hour. Creaks, cracks, the humming of appliances, and the stillness of nothing. A little white noise behind the sounds of night as the temperature drops and the house adjusts. There is a little bit of life in this house - not in a bad way, more like it has character. I'm feeling a little sad right now and there is nothing to be sad about, as far as I know. Maybe it was the movie. Maybe not. I don't have any big regrets about my adult life so far, but there is something about my childhood that has left a nagging little tug. Certainly not a regret - you can't regret a childhood when the choices are not really yours. I wasn't a sad child, but there is sadness about it as I think back. I don't think I really want to deal with that just now. So, I guess I'll dream on.