Wake
Me When I'm Nude
Settling into familiar digs in west London; the partly cloudy skies are no departure from the June gloom still lingering in Southern California. Perhaps it’s this low ceiling on the queens’ capital, or just the general swivel of the Earth that sat me down (anchored me down rather) and has me placing my attention on the gentleman’s sport of dreaming. Lucid sleeping certainly helps for writing as does rest help one recover from action sports like cycling and soccer, two things I’m doing quite often here (to my hamstrings’ surprise.) But, sadly, I feel this need for napping is not so impressive as it’s simply a symptom of sojourning. Yes, jetlag is the designer of my dress.
Back in school I used to be the king of the sneaky sleep, propping my head up on the fat of my palm while I pretended to read, or I would hide my eyelids under my hands as I again pretended to peer down into a good book – or, sometimes, I would simply trust that the person in front of me would provide the cover I needed to lay my head flat out on the desk. Being the king of the sneaky sleep doesn’t mean I went without being caught. I just mean I did it a lot. Perhaps it was from starting my day with sugary cereal and then crashing out by half ten - I doubt it was from staying up late. Without cable TV or Internet (or my own homework to keep me up) there mustn’t have been much to occupy my evenings. If anything, I blame the long nights memorizing all the words to “the Humpty Dance.”
(Remind me to write a blog about my selective memory one day. Even this mention I will likely forget.)
On many occasions, my dreams would wake me up in class, and not quietly either – and not without a fair amount of drool on my face or lines pressed into my flesh from the stitching in me arm sleeve. The sounds I made as I shot up in my seat were not human. If I can recall what it’s like, the mind is trying to alert the group that I am awake AND paying attention to the conversation, as if to say, “Ah-ha” or “Mmm,” making a general sound of agreement, implying I’m playing along.
Settling into familiar digs in west London; the partly cloudy skies are no departure from the June gloom still lingering in Southern California. Perhaps it’s this low ceiling on the queens’ capital, or just the general swivel of the Earth that sat me down (anchored me down rather) and has me placing my attention on the gentleman’s sport of dreaming. Lucid sleeping certainly helps for writing as does rest help one recover from action sports like cycling and soccer, two things I’m doing quite often here (to my hamstrings’ surprise.) But, sadly, I feel this need for napping is not so impressive as it’s simply a symptom of sojourning. Yes, jetlag is the designer of my dress.
Back in school I used to be the king of the sneaky sleep, propping my head up on the fat of my palm while I pretended to read, or I would hide my eyelids under my hands as I again pretended to peer down into a good book – or, sometimes, I would simply trust that the person in front of me would provide the cover I needed to lay my head flat out on the desk. Being the king of the sneaky sleep doesn’t mean I went without being caught. I just mean I did it a lot. Perhaps it was from starting my day with sugary cereal and then crashing out by half ten - I doubt it was from staying up late. Without cable TV or Internet (or my own homework to keep me up) there mustn’t have been much to occupy my evenings. If anything, I blame the long nights memorizing all the words to “the Humpty Dance.”
(Remind me to write a blog about my selective memory one day. Even this mention I will likely forget.)
On many occasions, my dreams would wake me up in class, and not quietly either – and not without a fair amount of drool on my face or lines pressed into my flesh from the stitching in me arm sleeve. The sounds I made as I shot up in my seat were not human. If I can recall what it’s like, the mind is trying to alert the group that I am awake AND paying attention to the conversation, as if to say, “Ah-ha” or “Mmm,” making a general sound of agreement, implying I’m playing along.
