The ocean meets the sky in equal colors this morning. Without the delineation of an horizon, it’s hard to image there is anywhere to go. I don’t mind, because here is as good as anywhere. This place on the edge of the world is not Philomath, so I’m all right.
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Maybe one night in a thousand I will lie on the futon and stare at the blank ceiling, most likely because I ate something which did not like me. Nine hundred ninety-nine nights out of a thousand, my head hits the pillow and I’m gone. I sleep easily.
I don’t know that I sleep well. I’m not sure what constitutes good sleep, because nothing ever happens during my nocturnal activities to provide benchmarks.
Over the past thirteen years, I talked with people and tried various techniques to help me remember my dreams. So far, nothing works. Every night, around two or three, I uncover myself, get off the futon, and go to the bathroom. That moment, aware I am about to get up, would be the perfect moment to identify a dream, but when I look between the fatty folds of gray matter in my skull I find nothing. Whatever swam through my head behind closed eyes instantly vanishes.
I go to the bathroom, sometimes, I think, while still asleep, and when I return to the futon, recover myself, and close my eyes, I fall instantly to sleep.
It goes like that, nine hundred ninety-nine nights out of a thousand nights.
When I wake in the morning, I never feel rested. My mood slops like black goo through whatever thoughts of the day begin to enter my head.
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I did not dream last night. I did navigate to the rear of the motorhome to use the toilet. As always, I searched for indications of a dream, but found only:
- “The floor is cold,”
- “don’t stub your toe,”
- “don’t wake T~ by rocking the Trolley when you fall onto the toilet.”
I woke this morning to a warm Chihuahua tucked into my armpit, the patter of rain, the cackle of crows, gray light filtered through the overhead vents, and a stormy sea with no horizon when I looked out the window.
All that filled my head when I got up:
- “the floor is cold,”
- “this is cool,”
- “let T~ and the female Chihuahua sleep a while longer,”
- “wow, this is cool.”
I harnessed and leashed a little male Chihuahua. “Come on, boy, let’s go outside.” I took my little man out in the rain to go potty. I was in a good mood.
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(It took awhile to write this post. My thoughts kept looking toward the window to watch the ocean. All I could think: “Wow, this is cool.”)
I think I always sleep well if I drink some Rooibos tea on retiring for the night. My current bedside book is Wait Until Spring, Bandini - John Fante.
ReplyDeleteWhat else can I say? Dreams come and go. My sister once gave me a dream diary for Christmas. I was supposed to write down all my remembered dreams upon waking. I found it much too stressful and stopped keeping the diary after two weeks. I prefer dreamless sleep. Sometimes I have little nightmares, like I'm back at work, or I'm late for work, or I can't find something at work. These are the worst dreams and when you retire from work they haunt you.
Sounds like a great place to be. We are in the midst of lambing (he pulled one on the week-end); so not going to spend nights anywhere else but if we were, that'd be a great location from your description. I do love the Oregon Coast and storms are as good a time to be there as any. I can almost taste the salt spray from your descriptions on this and the last blog
ReplyDeleteBeautiful post! Soak up that ocean view, Mike, not all dreams were meant for sleeping!
ReplyDeleteI used to keep a diary of my dreams - when I was 21, and once in a while, I still do. I tried to paint them. That never works. It's like trying to keep your eye on just one wave peak in the sea.