In the last week and a half, I've had two good nights' sleep. Last night, none. This despite the pills that are supposed to alleviate the insomnia. And I've tried just about everything, so please don't recommend. I've tried it. Yes, that too. But no sleep. Only a chilly Rhode Island dawn.
I opened my office window and smelled the chilly morning air and listened to a bird. I told myself, At seven you can have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a Red Bull. You know, Daucus carota sativus on a stick. I got bored, and at fifteen until seven I lay down by Spooky to wait out those fifteen minutes. And I fell the fuck to sleep. For four hours. I awoke at eleven, and I awoke very awake. I got up and had my morning ramen with broccoli and baby portobellos and too much soy sauce. My mind was still racing as fast as when I couldn't sleep. Stories. The narrative frame of Cherry Bomb, letters to editors, "Ballad of an Echo Whisperer," color preferences for the materials, specifically, cloth and foil for both the trade of The Ape's Wife and for Black Helicopters and leather, foil, and end paper for the limited, the very elaborate, interweaving threads of my RP in The Secret World and how those actually tie into the plot of Cherry Bomb (without involving anyone else's characters but my own), and...you get the picture.
But here I am. Awake and feeling better than I've felt in days. I got the upswing late yesterday afternoon, just before Spooky and I took a walk to Dexter Training Ground. It was chemically induced, but has stayed with me.
The only real work I managed yesterday, other than a few emails, was reading all the way through "Ballad of an Echo Whisperer" aloud to Spooky. It's actually a good story, I think. Which, considering it took me a month to write, is a relief. But it's also a very...obscure story. A very opaque story. It's a ghost story that admits to being a Möbius strip. I made line edits to the story and sent it away to the editor it was written for, and I can only hope they love it, despite the looping opacity.
More and more I am finding linear narrative all but impossible to achieve. More and more, my thoughts on "paper" are like the thoughts roiling in my head. What psychologists and psychiatrists and neurologists, referring to the speech patterns of schizophrenics, call "word salad." Supposedly "word salad" in incoherent, but when I read transcripts of interviews with schizophrenics, I can almost always follow the threads of conversation. More and more, it's hard to escape my true voice, my own "word salad." The truest, the most authentic, section of The Drowning Girl is "7/7/7," because it was written without restraint and with no regard for the "needs" of readers.
Yesterday, I said to Spooky something like this. "If I could spend the rest of my career writing as William S. Burroughs wrote, my life would be so much easier. My writing would be so much better. But Bill Burroughs died in horrible poverty.* He was a genius, and I am a hack."**
This morning, watching The Thing, I realized a thing that through all those hundreds of watchings, from the eighties until now, I had never fucking seen. Doctor Copper has a goddamn nose ring. I was watching the film this morning on the iPad, and the clarity on it is astounding. And there was the nose ring. I checked stills online, and actually found a thread talking about the nose ring. Here's a photo to demonstrate that I didn't hallucinate this. See it?:
I mean, I've been asked to write essays on the film (which I've never done, though I almost wrote one, "What the Norwegian Said," but never got around to it). But I never saw the goddamn nose ring.
Last night, we finished Season Five of Breaking Bad. Gods, what a brilliant series. I'm afraid we're going to have to pay to see the final season when it begins on August 11th. We can stream it through Amazon. I so hate giving Amazon more money. Amazon is only an inch and a half less evil than Wal-Mart and Monsanto and BP.
Most of the trouble in this world has been caused by folks who can't mind their own business, because they have no business of their own to mind, any more than a smallpox virus has. ~ William S. Burroughs
Minding Her own Business,
* Actually, wait...I was thinking of Quentin Crisp. He died in horrible poverty, right?
** Somewhat ironically, despite being one of the most prolific SF/F writers alive, I expect to do the same. See first footnote, above.