Ever since I can remember, I’ve had trouble sleeping. That’s an all around problem: not only have I had trouble getting to sleep, but also trouble staying asleep. This leads to a rather vicious circle, really, since I will eventually get to sleep, then wake up a couple of hours later, feel like going back to sleep, and then have issues falling back into slumber. It can lead to some rather interesting days if the previous sleeping sesssions have been particularly bad, as it’s a bit akin to sleepwalking through a fog on a path that isn’t very well lit. Most of the time, I can get about four hours or so of actual sleep – even though it may take me six to get there – and that will be fine for me.
I’m not entirely sure just when it all started. I know I’ve never been much of a sleeper, unlike my siblings, who would happily sleep their way through a dozen hours. There is no real rhyme or reason to the cause: it isn’t dietary, it isn’t stress, it isn’t any strange phobia. I can say that throughout radiation and chemo, I slept longer and better than I can recall ever sleeping. Not that I would want to have that be my method of getting decent sleep time in, mind you – certainly that would be a bit of an extreme just to gain a few hours of naptime. but it does solidify for me the thought that to get a “normal” sleep, I have to be totally exhausted. Once that exhaustion is assuaged, though, my sleep pattern goes directly back to what it was.
Someone once asked me if I dream at all when I sleep. Sure I do. My sleeping dreams, like my waking imagination, are quite vivid and I do recall most of the details. The same person asked me if I had nightmares on a regular basis. No. It’s quite rare that I’ll experience a nightmare, in fact. So my insomiac-like behavior can’t be blamed on that, either.
Right now, I can feel myself reaching that point of exhaustion that might actually allow me to sleep through the next five or six hours with minimal interruption. My eyes are crossing as I type this, and I have to close one eye in order to finish. Since the work I was doing (moving two gigantic accounts between servers) is completed, this is as good a time as any to test just how tired I am and just how quickly it will take me off into downy sleep.
A bit of a metaphysical chat with a friend tonight, touching on the topic of writing.
I always wanted to write. Since I was young, my head has been filled with the byproducts of an overactive imagination. For the past dozen or so years, I’ve been carrying around ideas that would, were they to be formed, make themselves into novels.
So why, one might ask, do I not write? Good question, and one I ask myself over and over as I berate myself for not doing just that.
My internal editor will not shut its yap. I hear that little voice saying the same things over and over: that writing stinks. That piece is too private, too personal. That section over there is an idea that’s been rehashed forever, can’t you be original?
And there is the other side of writing, too, the side that wouldn’t be for publication necessarily, but is more an exercise to stretch one’s wings, to let the words flow about whatever topic is uppermost in the mind. A friend of mine tells me that I’ve not posted anything personal in some time, and this is true. Even my insertion of some personal details in the midst of a larger post are incidental. That same little voice yammers about how personal stuff should remain just that way, how deeper thoughts on subjects make me sound like a pretentious git, and how someone else has already said it – better – before I ever got to it.
So what’s the solution? Hell if I know. I’m just typing a stream of consciousness thing here, trying not to edit as I go along. It’s incredibly difficult, and for someone like me who is generally in control all the time, frustrating not to be able to control this as well. At times it almost feels like a failure of character not to be able to spit out the things that are stuck in the brain cells under my skull. I feel like I am awash in words that will never be written, in things that will never be said. I can’t decide if that’s a trgedy or a blessing.
He may be an Olympic champion, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less of an ass, at least on television. If anyone saw the immediate post-race interview, where Shani Davis gave one sentence answers to two questions (and one said answer was all of three words: “I feel great.”), they’d probably immediately think, as I did, that it’s just another fine example of a self-absorbed jerk that we’ve seen enough of this Olympics, thank you very much. After reading that his mother cried racism at the US speedskating team/coaches and that he’s not much of a team player, it’s no wonder to me that the other skaters, and to some extent the coaches, don’t have many good things to say about him. Fortunately, he’s offset by Joey Cheek, who not only didn’t gush about himself after winning (hello, Chad Hedrick, yes we know about your grandmother), but has donated his winnings to Right to Play.
I’m lusting after smokers. Not the human kind, obviously. The grilling kind. I think a nice applewood-smoked pork loin would be delicious, among other things.
The other night, the fam had steaks. Cut from a large sirloin tip, dusted with spices, and then seared off on a cast iron grill pan on the stove. Smelled great, looked perfectly medium rare when they dove in. As I as pouring formula down the tube, I thought a perfect accompaniment would have been some onion confit. I don’t know if they could stand the making of it, though, considering it takes many hours and would fill the place with oniony aromas.