The picture I posted is by Henry Fuselli, called The Nightmare, one of several he painted on that theme. He used to be a great favorite of mine. I was very young when I first saw The Nightmare, and it struck me as revealing something profound about women. Now I think it's more about a man's view of women, seen through the cultural dream of his time. And it's still a rip-snorting portrait of a nightmare.
It's 2:30 AM now, or maybe closer to three, and I can't sleep. Partly it's the financial mess, a fine mess built on dreams, illusions, delusions, and lies and fueled on greed. Luckily, I went broke after the tech bubble popped, then slowly, slowly began to crawl out. So I'm spared what so many people are going through: the shock of losing the life you thought you had.
At such times, when I can't sleep, then the megrims and the gremlins come. Nietzsche astutely remarked, With sleeplessness, one is visited by fears one conquered long ago. But tonight's fear is about nothing I've known. It's about the sheer immensity of this crisis, the hugeness of it curling over everything, like a tsunami roaring to shore. And, of course, once a big important fear like that creeps over me, the little ones come scuttling in on its coattails, ready to nibble a night's rest into lace. The one thing these anxieties have in common is that I can't do a thing about them at 3:20 in the morning.
Although it didn't help me tonight, I usually take 5 mgs. of melatonin before bed. If I take an extra half-tablet, I have dreams. They've never been bad ones, only lurid and panoramic, with lots of characters and bright scenery. Last night's was like that, although it dissolved like soap bubbles when I tried to recall it. I remember I rode a donkey, and wore a long skirt of blue-checked coarse cotton. And the guy Henry Paulson picked to administer his bailout billions, Kashkari, appeared as an auto mechanic, smeared with black grease. I recognized his shaved head.
When I'd call her in a panic, always very late, my mother would say, What in the world can you do about it right now? As I'd think about it, I knew she was right: there was absolutely nothing I could do, and I'd toddle off to bed.
Talking one evening with some other women, our chat turned to insomnia, and how it nudged our anxieties awake.
I repeated my mother's question, and mentioned what a comfort it was, when a friend nearby spoke up. My mother said the same damn thing, but I knew what I could do right then. I could drink Diet Dr. Pepper, smoke cigarettes and stay up all night, my girlfriend announced.
As soon as she said that, I thought, She's right! What a great idea!
So now I'm smoking, trying not to grab a Coke, but the dawn's coming fast.
At such times, when I can't sleep, then the megrims and the gremlins come. Nietzsche astutely remarked, With sleeplessness, one is visited by fears one conquered long ago. But tonight's fear is about nothing I've known. It's about the sheer immensity of this crisis, the hugeness of it curling over everything, like a tsunami roaring to shore. And, of course, once a big important fear like that creeps over me, the little ones come scuttling in on its coattails, ready to nibble a night's rest into lace. The one thing these anxieties have in common is that I can't do a thing about them at 3:20 in the morning.
Although it didn't help me tonight, I usually take 5 mgs. of melatonin before bed. If I take an extra half-tablet, I have dreams. They've never been bad ones, only lurid and panoramic, with lots of characters and bright scenery. Last night's was like that, although it dissolved like soap bubbles when I tried to recall it. I remember I rode a donkey, and wore a long skirt of blue-checked coarse cotton. And the guy Henry Paulson picked to administer his bailout billions, Kashkari, appeared as an auto mechanic, smeared with black grease. I recognized his shaved head.
When I'd call her in a panic, always very late, my mother would say, What in the world can you do about it right now? As I'd think about it, I knew she was right: there was absolutely nothing I could do, and I'd toddle off to bed.
Talking one evening with some other women, our chat turned to insomnia, and how it nudged our anxieties awake.
I repeated my mother's question, and mentioned what a comfort it was, when a friend nearby spoke up. My mother said the same damn thing, but I knew what I could do right then. I could drink Diet Dr. Pepper, smoke cigarettes and stay up all night, my girlfriend announced.
As soon as she said that, I thought, She's right! What a great idea!
So now I'm smoking, trying not to grab a Coke, but the dawn's coming fast.
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