My bed, being naked and alone

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My bed, being naked and alone

I know I wrote about my bed before.

 And I know there is some risk in writing about it again, of committing the writer's cardinal sin: repetition.

But, you know, I'll go on. I won't read what I wrote before, I'll plough on, because it gives me such release, such catharsis, to tell you how it is.

 I delay going to bed, I don't want to lie there. I know why. It's because it's unmanly to seek refuge in sleep; men stay on their feet and fight until their very tendons collapse. 

Then, when the day has truly ended when it doesn't seem embarrassing to go to bed, I go. I undress. 

It`s strange how when you undress you become naked but now because you have spent so much of your life clothed your nakedness seems alien and stranger than when you are wearing clothes. So I don't spend long looking at myself naked for this reason- I find the sight disconcerting, perhaps even shameful, though I wouldn't  be committing a crime in front of the mirror. I wonder if Californians ever feel the same, but I somehow doubt it. I am sure it is feeling located in the strange alleyways of my Scottish background, and the aftermath of Calvinism.

 I make sure the room is perfectly black. I have double curtains and I pull them tight together so no chink of light can enter. Then I get inside that blue blanket which is quite unbelievably soft, a new born baby could not be more kindly swaddled.

There you can see the leafy pillow: this is where my head goes, a watch beside it. I can`t live without time. The thought of waking and not knowing what time it is is as horrific as it would be for me to be dropped into some distant Chinese city, all hateful concrete blocks and street signs incomprehensible -a sense of panic would overcome me.

Then I close my eyes, then it comes in an silent wave or like a light being switched off- so rapid that you feel nothing at all, a slight of hand. Or...or it does not come and I lie like an idiot, cheated. Come here, come! Oh come here, sleep! Oh come!

I cheated myself by presuming that I might deserve to enter the dusk woods. It feels like nothing so much as being stood up. Affronted.

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Sleep is like music, if it is good or bad, I mean of course, music that catches you completely- you are physically moved by it, your heart beats differently, your moods rise and fall, it plays with aspirations and doubts. Some say that music can make you a better person but I find that sentimental, far too optimistic.

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I think we all know that life is hell, really, but most think it rather bad manners to state that too openly. It's like that experience when you go for a meal in a restaurant and the food and service are lousy, but only small children are given license to say, this really isn't great is it! as the others look awkwardly to the floor. But sometimes you are so pissed off that you have to say something.

 

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