Category Archives: Sleep

The accidental hypocrite & the fake plants that died because he didn’t pretend to water them…

Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine…

Thomas Aquinas

Nikon026x600Just as my wise and decidedly erstwhile therapist once neglected to tell me voluntarily, if you ain’t got none then fake some— something which was no doubt passed down from one learned bejacketed chap to another and then to him in order to band-aid folk in desperate need, for reasons both earth shattering or as erroneous as whatever mine happened to be at the time. Now just happens to be time to water the plastic tree and I don’t even consider myself to be overly sceptical. But I must confess to considering such sandwich-filler philosophy to be some kind of joke that few, of which I wasn’t one of those who were in on; or that perhaps this was his idea of faking it, and in some round about way, was him subtly demonstrating how to use the prescription.

Whatever it was, I accepted it and have attempted to use it many times since with varying degrees of success and failure I might add— all with the exception of sincerity, since I’ve found it’s the one thing that if you can fake, you can fake anything. As for me, my hypocrisy only goes so far and since I have so few opportunities to be genuinely sincere these days, I much prefer giving it a go the old fashioned way. Besides, it also seems to be something that becomes rarer with the passing of time. I suppose a lot of the ‘pretending’ nonsense is much better suited to young folk and their flexible skin, as my walrus-like derma gives the game away with far too much swift to be considered fair game— and I’m not one to be deliberately foolish, any more than I am to be accidentally hypocritical.

Enough as they say is quite enough. I’ve reached that unfortunate point in any period of sub-par-ness, whereby I’ll actually start rewinding moments and days in an attempt to fathom the unfathomable, or at the very least, the invisible bottom which deserves my unreserved wrath to be turned spittoon and crazed. It’s imprecise, futile and impossible to spank. Nope, it merely adds to the joylessness of something which belongs confined to the golf course. I’ve even begun harbouring ill thoughts concerning my recent trip— that if I hadn’t gone everything would’ve been fine, I’d still be sleeping and working and perfect— but that’s B.S. as well. For starters, I don”t believe it, secondly, I needed a break and had a wonderful time— I’m not much of a drinker these days and nothing quite validates the conscience like a change of scenery whilst corking a splendid Pinot Noir in the late ante meridiem on a school day. Nope, it wasn’t that and I bear nothing but resentment for even thinking it.

What I needed yesterday was some perspective and if I couldn’t muster any, I just had to fake some. I needed to lash my resentment and throttle my ill thoughts with a dash of fake perspective and put away all that reflection nonsense, because the last thing I needed was for my last trip to be the last I ever have— that just won’t do— I like a large glass of wine before lunch from time to time; and since the issue at hand isn’t really all that complicated: mainly sleep with perhaps a few pre-operation nerves thrown in for good measure, I decided to get some sleep-aids to knock me out, so at least I might be able to start unreversing the bollocks. If I can’t sleep, I might as well fake that too.

Anyway, I took a few of them last night and must’ve nodded off pretty quickly, because the next thing I remember is coming to, at least feeling like I’d had a good nap— gave a little nod to gods— and got up to make a cup of tea before realising it was still only 12.25.

And that was twelve hours ago—

 I’m going to shower and go shopping for something a bit stronger I think…

I have to admit it’s getting better…

There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before…

Henry David Thoreau

clone 02 2I think I can safely say the fog of beastliness has finally been lifted and the mending is well and truly on its way. That said, there is still a residual strangeness afoot— no doubt owing to a few nights spent bolt-upright for fear of drowning from the nose down. The head is clearer, so much so I can picture phrases in their entirety and have them committed without the worry they’ll escape as they did yesterday; which wasn’t so much a case of forgetting what I was trying to copy, as it was a series of chases I wasn’t properly conditioned for. That’s the worst thing about feeling under the weather: as climates go, they aren’t particularly chivalrous.

I remember one particular malady which left me so indisposed, I not only considered it malfeasant, so unnecessary were the symptoms; but also the closest I’ve ever been to becoming a vegetable. I was so delirious at one point, I actually considered making clippings of myself to send to friends so they could grow their own me.

Since then I’ve used the man/pot-plant spectrum as a rough rule of slide to gauge the gruesomeness of whatever it is that ails me: one being quite normal and ten: Salix babylonica or Weeping willow— a pleasant enough looking thing, but with all the characteristics of a state you should never be: ornamentally droopy and narrow, deciduous and named after a place which arouses images of exile and immorality.

While I hadn’t quite reached the shady heights of a ten, I was nevertheless pendulous enough to remain tucked up, clinging onto my duvet— along with the sixes and sevens in-case they ran off in search of the words that’d absconded earlier in the day. It’s just one of those ghastly things we pick up over time, along with the odd bug or two, that once things start getting away from us, there’s really no stopping them.

Fortunately the emancipation ceased and I didn’t get too much worse as the day dragged on— the drugs plugged the symptoms to the point I could at least breathe without making gargling sounds, which in turn allowed me to sleep a little. Unfortunately, I haven’t the stamina to delve into anything remotely grumpy today, at least not with the gusto it truly deserves. The beastliness may have evaporated, but there is still the small matter of about 50IQ points to make back up. So with any luck, after a few cups of tea and one good rest I’ll be ready for whatever the weathermen may throw at me; and with any hope be smarter than the cat again.

Without civilisation, we would not turn into animals, but vegetables…

Mason Cooley

Home is any four walls that enclose the right person…

Which wouldn’t be me. As for Asbo

Just the wrong kind of walls…

424980_10150708723606041_1819417037_nWere it not for the house-sitting I’ve been doing for my sister, I would no doubt have finished the few things I’ve been working on; I’d been looking forward to it too— but after spending most of today getting over yesterday; which was spent in much the same way as today; and then moving back: I’m in a full-blown phase-state. I’m sure you’ll all know a variance of it well: a lack of decent sleep leaving you feeling half-awake, physically drained and not too clever; have work in your head but getting to it requires the services of the part of your brain’s that’s already in bed.

This is what shifting houses can do to me, it can throw me out of whack, out of sleep and leave me rather worse for wear; and this is before factoring in Asbo the anti-social beast my sister calls a pet. I should ideally have come home during the day, sat at my table with my view, next to the kitchen and been irritated by my own cat: she’s allowed to do that, she’s a monster I can take all the credit for, but Asbo— though he’s a magnificent looking creature, he has an inherency to maim and strike fear into you. Physically, it’d be all too easy to describe him as low-maintenance because he’s either indoors sleeping or outside prowling— but that doesn’t take into account the time spent dressing the assorted wounds he inflicts as a matter of course. In deed, thirty seconds after arriving on Tuesday, I was bleeding from where my right calf used to be.

My sister thinks this is all wonderfully amusing, it’s just her way— she actually called me up to see how things were going and if she was surprised I was still able to answer the phone she hid it well. She said there was some chicken that Asbo and I could share if we wanted. I told her he hadn’t asked for any and of course, she felt the need to point out, he’s a cat, of course he hasn’t asked you… I told her I’d just eaten and’d left some for later— she said, Oh, you’d better check that…

“The little shit, he’s…”

What’s he done?”   *snorting*

“He’s finished my sodding dinner!”

What was it?”   *still snorting*

“Chicken… Don’t you dare!

“So he did want some chicken…”

“&%$£%$!”

*click*

Neither my dinner, nor the cat was anywhere to be seen…

Anyway, the other side of physical side is the stressy side— the anxiety of letting him loose, which isn’t much worse than knowing I’m in the house alone with him. It’s just I like to know that if he wants back in, I’ll be ready; maybe in some deluded way hoping that he’ll return the favour by not mauling me every time he sees me.

So naturally the knock on effect isn’t much fun; I feel slow and far, far duller than is usually the case. I need a quiet evening with the doorbell unplugged and a decent night’s sleep, then hopefully, I’ll be able to finish some work.

A man is like a cat; chase him and he will run—

Sit still and ignore him and he’ll come purring at your feet…

Helen Rowland

Cold callers, mornings and long streaks of misery…

Excuse me, can I have a quick word?

Sure, you can have two: whoosh and zoom…

WP_000189There are certain things that really bug me in the morning. And it’s not always the morning’s fault. It’s not the fault of those certain things which depending on the wheel of fortune of the day, just so happening to pause between one of the anythings that irk. Then there are people and every other thing.

I’m certainly not a gripper who goes to bed in surley-boots and wakes ready to extract joy, quite the opposite, but phone calls, sunshine and a blatant disregard for the effects of unnecessary exuberance count. I’m not sure which category it would fit into, but enthusiasm really waffles me when it’s unwarranted, unsolicited and before breakfast, appreciably so.

When I’m asleep, I like to think that I’m minding my own business. I like to think that it’s not out of the question to expect anything any different. But what do I know? I do know that there are people that phone your house sounding so fucking excited to be alive and lottery-winner jolly, wanting to give you free windows and trips to the moon, that make me want to disown my own face if I allow them more than minute or two.

So when I heard the phone ringing this morning; dragged my body over to it; answered it and Life is Beautiful introduced himself as, Trevor from Sunshine Travel. I knew I wasn’t asleep. I knew in those first few moments that I’d had a grim rest and no amount of happy-talk or freebies were going to supplant the misanthrope I felt at that moment.

‘I’m sorry’ I said, ‘but no. No, no, no, no. No. I’m not going talk to you…

‘Would you mind explaining why?’

It’s not everyday an opportunity like this arises, it just doesn’t, but Trevor from Sunshine Travel got brownie-points for being ballsy, and a free-pass. And I just can’t abide rudeness … the irony.

‘Not at all.’ I said, ‘Because I’m going back to bed…’

*click*

The psychological census, garden gnomes, wind-chimes, revenge & Russian roulette…

There is something so devilishly irrelevant about contemporary garden art—

That it cannot help failing to stimulate…

223102_10151214972906041_603918045_nThis is not always a good thing. It’s actually positively cruel in ways I am loathe to describe in too much detail, just in case my points are used for criminal purposes. There’s no doubt in my mind that some of this rubbish’s innocuousity— quite shamelessly so— could be exploited for tormenting the innocent; myself included, and I mention it only because the winds that pound my window, are also the same winds currently upsetting the wind-chime next door; belonging to a woman so grotesque, I have a mind to suggest she audition to become a garden feature— in someone elses garden.

It’s not that it’s something I could reel off a hundred objections against with ease, it’s just— well, everything about them. I fail to see anything remotely redeeming about them— it’s just my hope that someone I’m not too keen on is being creeped out too. They are made from scrap, crap and rubbish; they look like it and their sounds reflects the way they look. And just to compound the issue, the weather at present is far too intemperate to contemplate many more nights like last night.

The godawful racket wasn’t so much as reflected as it was carried off and up and around, before being thrown about with great force, seemingly sucking energies from the earth as it tried to dent my windows, my ears and my tranquillity— three things one really ought, if one does not already— hold dearly. No one need feel put upon in this way, which is what precipitated the streak of ruthless cunning with which to whisk future gales— should one reappear— perhaps one future day. Perhaps tonight?

My plans are dependant upon one unlikely event however and should it not transpire, I’ve a mind to just insert my own: the introduction of a psychological census. With the results, I could then ensure the correct noise was placed under the correct bedroom, correctly of course— in order to procure maximum nocturnal irritation. And if I couldn’t be specific and individually tailor my treats— there would always be the car-alarm— at least I’d like to think resorting to such a thing would be unnecessary: car-alarms are bastards.

My uncle is a great lover of tack: that would be inane rubbish to you or I. And were it not only his passion for buying it, but his passion for hanging it in his garden, we’d propably have more in common. A collection of twirly throws of coloured plastic whizzing back and forth are one of his more tasteless stylistic comments, in fact I’d prefer to call it a commitment. Another is a set of chimes; made from bamboo. It rather puts me in mind of ‘The Bridge On The River Kwai’ or the Vietnamese POW camp in ‘The Deer Hunter’, you want to rattle it and shout ‘Mao-mao!’ loudly, preferably within a foot from someone’s face. Though the temptation to actually put my foot in anyone’s face is rare, I believe I would make the except if next door pretended she was a gnome.

Now this is coming from someone who only saw the film— it’s rhetorical and I am not being influenced by television— but imagine if you’d actually been there and something woke you up by rattling bamboo outside your window. Imagine you have a slight incontinence problem only to wake up with a replica of the Trafalgar Square fountain floating in front of your face. Imagine being afraid and finding your fear hanging outside your bedroom window:

Perhaps it will be me, with a copy of: 

The psychological census…

And don’t get me started on gnomes…