With Apologies to Those Who Thought I was "the SANE One"
I guess I have to explain the mattress comment. Yes, the voice comes out of it. (And that’s all the explanation you’re gettin, honey, because that’s all I’ve got.) I’ve heard “Now, this is what we’re gonna do” and “Take a look at this” and folk knockin on the bedroom window, which is nothing to what I’ve seen. I’ve seen a man standing idly by the bed (I can describe him in detail even now because, that night, he showed up twice but did absolutely nothing interesting besides that), and various and sundry critters, including a tiny black and white cow (which turned out to be a non-mammalian, plastic gift bag), lyin around on the floor near the bed; even I think it’s hilarious when I’m awake and remembering it, but in the middle of the night, when I’m half(?)-asleep and half(?)-dreaming, it’s unutterably horrifying.
You know, back in the day, folk blamed these kinds of terrors on witches, whose pastime, inexplicably, was ridin half-asleep people in the wee hours of the morning. This I don’t understand, because unless an absolutely amazing capsheaf is forthcoming, I’d reckon ridin different and unwilling people in the wee hours of the morning (instead of sleepin, which is what I’druther) would be just. . . you know. . . awkward. Grown woman pretending a total stranger’s as good as a mechanical bull (or some other mechanism)? Awkward.
And wouldn’t no witch ride me long, either, I might’ve told you before, but sayin it again this time because of my normal reaction to night terrors: I LEAP out of bed. All the way. OUT, and then leap again, this time to my bedroom door, the better to hit the light switch. Only two leaps to the light switch, considering my girth and the distance, is pretty good, you know, and that tells you just how terrified I am at the time. My light switch is a remote, usually perched in its holder on the wall, but on nights when my imagination frightens me, I pull it down and take it to bed with me. Often with the TV remote.
One night, the night I had the really icky nightmare, I just kept the TV on all night long after I woke up. All night long. Nick at Nite, if you have to know, because, in addition to the fluffiness of the fare, the commercials are safe, too. (I’d like to, but cannot describe the near-heart attack I experienced one night when after wakin from a fitful doze, I opened my eyes upon a “Scariest Movies Ever” trailer. All because I thought Cartoon Network'd be safe. And right after, because I’d programmed it to, the TV turned itself off, and the room went black. Fortunately, my trusty light saber was on the floor by the bed at the time. Shudderworthy.)
Which brings me to the fact that my friends tell me my problem is my nightly Vinnie D. fix. (Christine's even gotten into the habit of askin, "What was the last thing you watched last night?") But I’m not givin him up, Trin, till the bios I read about him become a great deal less ambiguous, if you know what I mean. (And, Elayne, darling, this is not a challenge. Leave a sista her dr --fantasies.) I think, however, I need more exercise. Or, to be totally honest, some exercise. What with Thanksgiving break and the After-Thanksgiving Mystery Illness (you do not want to know), I’ve been missing my ellipticals (which took the place of my spinning class when pickin up Juice from band practice cut into that).
All this not sleepin and/or weird dreamin has me wonderin (yet again) about the meaning of dreams. But I still can’t say that the jury’s out on mysticality; I’m only mystical-minded when we talk about religion, thank you very much.
Gotta draw the line somewhere.
Jesus, my brother, You who neither slumber nor sleep, speak peace to the hearts of those of us who cannot rest.