Prattle on
Sunday, December 25, 2005
So, it’s 2:00Am on Christmas Eve. But I guess that means it is Christmas day. Obviously, I can’t sleep. It’s funny because normally on the night before Christmas my sister gets it into her head that she needs to make part of a gift for every member of the family. Then, she enlists my help with the project that predictably keeps us both up until about 3:30AM armed with paints, or bits of wood or miniature plant pots. It is always a nice idea, but it always gets put into motion way too late. Anyway, this is the first year in a long time when I actually got to bed at a reasonable hour. But, my sister came walking into the room twice. Both times I was at critical points on my journey to dreamland and that last time caused a detour in my route, a little detour called insomnia. It’s unfair. She is sleeping soundly in the other room and I have to power up my laptop to take care of some errant thoughts running through my brain.

I hate not being able to sleep. And I feel betrayed by my body, mainly because, for a good part of the evening I felt as if I could have dropped off to sleep at any given moment. But, I couldn’t because my sister dragged me around this picturesque suburb to run this errand and that. Now that I am in a comfortable bed and ready to fall asleep I have finally attained the level of awakedness necessary to operate heavy machinery, balance a cheque book or perform minor day surgery. How is this fair?

Tomorrow, when I get thrown into the lion’s of noise, I will no doubt want to curl up and sleep but there will be no rest when surrounded by 25 of my closest screaming relatives.

Perhaps my body isn’t betraying me at all. Perhaps that it is used to this once-a-year marathon of semi-consciousness and in an hour (at the 3:30AM mark) I will finally be able to close my eyes and drift soundly. Perhaps not.

Anyway, I think I’m gonna read The new Yorker. I picked it up the other day because I was attracted by the short story by Nabokov in it. I read it yesterday and I almost sent the editor of the magazine an e-mail that goes like this “Fuck, I love Nabokov”, but I suspect he’s hear that before.

<< Home

Powered by Blogger