Monday, June 22, 2009
David and the Squirrel
David and the Squirrel is a short-short story. I plan on writing more of the same during the summer. This is thanks to the suggestion of a friend, who directed me to the NPR contest. If you don't like it, go ahead and let me know; I'm aware of its flaws. After all, I'm trying to learn from my own mistakes.
Labels: story, threeminutefiction
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
My Deliverance — A Simple Fishing Story: Part III
We had failed to purchase bait in our gathering of supplies. Considering that we had purchased the three Bs: Beer, Bread, and Baloney, we probably should have been reminded to get a fourth, but whatever. There was a Styrofoam tub of worms in the fridge.
We took up positions around the lake, attached hooks, bobbers, and bait; we cast out our lines. I could now see that the lake was surrounded by thick woods on all other sides, and that the shore near the house was groomed and carefully sloped. The driveway to the house extended as a gravel path along the lake and on into the woods beyond. A chilly fog sat upon the water. Dark mountain peaks ringed the area, and it was quiet. I could hear Mr. J. clearing his throat and settling himself, and Freddie casting out. So nice was this man-made, private haven that there were benches along the shore. I lay on one and promptly fell asleep.
Freddie woke me up a couple of hours later. We were going into town. "What about the lines?" I asked. "Don't worry about them."
We went first to check on the hunting cabin that actually belonged to Mr. J. A few miles from this nice, comfortable cabin, we drove through a gap in the woods along a two track, back along the dirt trail to a clearing. Built into the side of the hill was a sad and lonely building, really no more than a shed, its side worn, weathered and faded. The roof was of black shingles that were coated with green moss.
Inside there was a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling, and a wood burning stove. At one end was a table, and at the other were two sets of bunk beds. On a low table between the bunk beds was a considerable stack of girlie magazines, worn and weathered like the shed itself.
Mr. J. had merely wanted to check that the cabin was still standing, and that no critters had taken up residence, and so, as abruptly as we arrived, we departed once again.
Driving along these western Pennsylvania mountains, I didn't have the feeling of majesty or grandeur one might normally associate with mountains. I saw wooded hills along winding roads, and decrepit trailers in seldom home sites. At the juncture of two roads was a tavern called the Dew Drop Inn. This was "town".
It was, perhaps, eleven o'clock in the morning. Mr. J. settled himself at the bar, and Freddie and I played table-top shuffle board. Mr. J. was talking with the bartender, a woman who appeared to be older than him. Freddie suddenly had a brainstorm: he wanted to do shots. We sidled up to the bar next to Freddie's father, and Freddie asked. It turned out that Mr. J. didn't care. Somehow, that didn't surprise me.
Freddie wanted to do shots of Jack Daniels. I had never done such a thing (though I would soon enough do worse) so that sounded fine to me. The rest became a blur. I know we continued our ongoing, inane conversation of talking about how much beer we had consumed. (I must admit, I was surprised we had stayed up all night drinking beer.) But all that was now punctuated by the smack of an empty shot glass on the bar top, a blow delivered to free us from the shackles of adolescence. We delivered that blow repeatedly, each time thinking we were smarter, tougher, and more masculine than just a minute before.
At some point, Freddie realized he needed to go to the bathroom, but he fell off of the bar stool before he could gain his footing. It became surreal to me, talking with my friend one moment, and laughing at him on the floor the next. However, the look of desperation in his eyes got through to me, and I helped him into the bathroom.
He was sick. Not as sick as senior prom, but sick nonetheless. This displeased Mr. J. mightily, and I was instructed to get the son of a bitch into the car. Freddie was instructed to not vomit in the car, or he'd be walking back to Ohio. I believed him, and I also believe he'd have been walking back to Ohio with his father's shoe up his ass.
The drive back to the cottage was my time to listen to Mr. J. complain about what idiots we were for drinking that much. It was a life lesson of sorts, but, unfortunately, his son, passed out on the floor of the back seat, received no benefit.
At one point, we drove past a field of corn, and Mr. J. stopped the car. "Go get us some corn," he ordered, and out the door I went. This was a new experience for me, trespassing on a farmer's field to steal food. In my state, I didn't care much, and gathered an armload which I deposited on the floor of the car.
This domestic act, stealing food, seemed to mollify Mr. J. and we drove the remaining few miles to the cabin in silence. Once there, we drove past the cabin to the lake, and Mr. J. reclined his seat and went quickly to sleep. I was near comatose myself, but dragged myself back to the bench along the lake. It did not occur to me to check my line for a fish. Instead, I slept.
* NEXT UP: Part IV -- The Reckoning.
We took up positions around the lake, attached hooks, bobbers, and bait; we cast out our lines. I could now see that the lake was surrounded by thick woods on all other sides, and that the shore near the house was groomed and carefully sloped. The driveway to the house extended as a gravel path along the lake and on into the woods beyond. A chilly fog sat upon the water. Dark mountain peaks ringed the area, and it was quiet. I could hear Mr. J. clearing his throat and settling himself, and Freddie casting out. So nice was this man-made, private haven that there were benches along the shore. I lay on one and promptly fell asleep.
Freddie woke me up a couple of hours later. We were going into town. "What about the lines?" I asked. "Don't worry about them."
We went first to check on the hunting cabin that actually belonged to Mr. J. A few miles from this nice, comfortable cabin, we drove through a gap in the woods along a two track, back along the dirt trail to a clearing. Built into the side of the hill was a sad and lonely building, really no more than a shed, its side worn, weathered and faded. The roof was of black shingles that were coated with green moss.
Inside there was a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling, and a wood burning stove. At one end was a table, and at the other were two sets of bunk beds. On a low table between the bunk beds was a considerable stack of girlie magazines, worn and weathered like the shed itself.
Mr. J. had merely wanted to check that the cabin was still standing, and that no critters had taken up residence, and so, as abruptly as we arrived, we departed once again.
Driving along these western Pennsylvania mountains, I didn't have the feeling of majesty or grandeur one might normally associate with mountains. I saw wooded hills along winding roads, and decrepit trailers in seldom home sites. At the juncture of two roads was a tavern called the Dew Drop Inn. This was "town".
It was, perhaps, eleven o'clock in the morning. Mr. J. settled himself at the bar, and Freddie and I played table-top shuffle board. Mr. J. was talking with the bartender, a woman who appeared to be older than him. Freddie suddenly had a brainstorm: he wanted to do shots. We sidled up to the bar next to Freddie's father, and Freddie asked. It turned out that Mr. J. didn't care. Somehow, that didn't surprise me.
Freddie wanted to do shots of Jack Daniels. I had never done such a thing (though I would soon enough do worse) so that sounded fine to me. The rest became a blur. I know we continued our ongoing, inane conversation of talking about how much beer we had consumed. (I must admit, I was surprised we had stayed up all night drinking beer.) But all that was now punctuated by the smack of an empty shot glass on the bar top, a blow delivered to free us from the shackles of adolescence. We delivered that blow repeatedly, each time thinking we were smarter, tougher, and more masculine than just a minute before.
At some point, Freddie realized he needed to go to the bathroom, but he fell off of the bar stool before he could gain his footing. It became surreal to me, talking with my friend one moment, and laughing at him on the floor the next. However, the look of desperation in his eyes got through to me, and I helped him into the bathroom.
He was sick. Not as sick as senior prom, but sick nonetheless. This displeased Mr. J. mightily, and I was instructed to get the son of a bitch into the car. Freddie was instructed to not vomit in the car, or he'd be walking back to Ohio. I believed him, and I also believe he'd have been walking back to Ohio with his father's shoe up his ass.
The drive back to the cottage was my time to listen to Mr. J. complain about what idiots we were for drinking that much. It was a life lesson of sorts, but, unfortunately, his son, passed out on the floor of the back seat, received no benefit.
At one point, we drove past a field of corn, and Mr. J. stopped the car. "Go get us some corn," he ordered, and out the door I went. This was a new experience for me, trespassing on a farmer's field to steal food. In my state, I didn't care much, and gathered an armload which I deposited on the floor of the car.
This domestic act, stealing food, seemed to mollify Mr. J. and we drove the remaining few miles to the cabin in silence. Once there, we drove past the cabin to the lake, and Mr. J. reclined his seat and went quickly to sleep. I was near comatose myself, but dragged myself back to the bench along the lake. It did not occur to me to check my line for a fish. Instead, I slept.
* NEXT UP: Part IV -- The Reckoning.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
A Corn Hole Tournament
A simple game of bean bag toss takes on a very different tone when you call it "Corn Hole", depending on where you live. This tournament took place in Ohio, and we knew exactly what was meant. Our friends in Wisconsin, when we offer to play corn hole with them, raise an eyebrow.
Labels: standup
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My Deliverance — A Simple Fishing Story: Part II
The Ohio Turnpike is a major thoroughfare, but at one A.M. on a Friday, there's not a lot traffic. There are stretches of highway that are illuminated, but for the most part its a dark tunnel with your headlights and the stars to guide you. Once I-80 separates from the Turnpike, there are no more street lamps, and not a lot of civilization. We had been drinking quite a lot, and I needed to pee.
Mr. J. pulled over, and I marveled at the stars overhead while I urinated. Was I some kind of a rube that this was amazing and shocking to me? We had camped on numerous family vacations, and did I just not look up to pay attention? I think it was, perhaps, the thrill of being on a weird fishing trip and peeing on the side of the road at two in the morning. But those stars, the milky way methinks, were amazing.
Having peed once, I could not suppress the urge, and now every beer I drank was another stop to make. Mr. J. was annoyed, and he stopped drinking in protest. It was for the best, as we were soon in the foothills of Pennsylvania and, having left the expressway, the roads grew narrow and twisted against the landscape.
I had a general sense we were going East, but I had no clue whether we were closer to Erie or Pittsburgh. We kept climbing and twisting, and, looking back, I believe Mr. J. navigated with some innate sense, like salmon swimming upstream. Drunk salmon.
At four in the morning, we pulled off the road and drove along a two-track through the woods. We emerged from the cover into the yard of a two-story home surrounded by trees. I was under distress because we hadn't stopped to pee in quite a while, and once again I had a breathtaking view of the stars while I relieved myself.
We carried the beer inside, where we found a stylish home with all modern conveniences. I had been expecting a crude, bare cabin in the woods. The only thing missing was cable TV. At this hour, in this location, there was no broadcast programming. So we decided to play bumper pool.
I had only played bumper pool once before, and that was in the local Kmart when they made the mistake of putting a table out with sticks and balls while my brothers and I were in the store. It's really not fun, and I think bumper pool only persists because of a mistaken belief perpetuated by advertising funded by special interest groups, like other mistaken beliefs, such as: capitalism is democracy, any sex is good sex, and that Twinkies are food.
At dawn we decided to go fishing. What I couldn't see in the dark was that there was a small lake behind the house, and apparently the lake was stocked with fish. Because we had only unpacked the alcohol, we decided to drive the three hundred feet to the lake.
* NEXT UP: Part III -- We Actually Fish, But Not Really.
Mr. J. pulled over, and I marveled at the stars overhead while I urinated. Was I some kind of a rube that this was amazing and shocking to me? We had camped on numerous family vacations, and did I just not look up to pay attention? I think it was, perhaps, the thrill of being on a weird fishing trip and peeing on the side of the road at two in the morning. But those stars, the milky way methinks, were amazing.
Having peed once, I could not suppress the urge, and now every beer I drank was another stop to make. Mr. J. was annoyed, and he stopped drinking in protest. It was for the best, as we were soon in the foothills of Pennsylvania and, having left the expressway, the roads grew narrow and twisted against the landscape.
I had a general sense we were going East, but I had no clue whether we were closer to Erie or Pittsburgh. We kept climbing and twisting, and, looking back, I believe Mr. J. navigated with some innate sense, like salmon swimming upstream. Drunk salmon.
At four in the morning, we pulled off the road and drove along a two-track through the woods. We emerged from the cover into the yard of a two-story home surrounded by trees. I was under distress because we hadn't stopped to pee in quite a while, and once again I had a breathtaking view of the stars while I relieved myself.
We carried the beer inside, where we found a stylish home with all modern conveniences. I had been expecting a crude, bare cabin in the woods. The only thing missing was cable TV. At this hour, in this location, there was no broadcast programming. So we decided to play bumper pool.
I had only played bumper pool once before, and that was in the local Kmart when they made the mistake of putting a table out with sticks and balls while my brothers and I were in the store. It's really not fun, and I think bumper pool only persists because of a mistaken belief perpetuated by advertising funded by special interest groups, like other mistaken beliefs, such as: capitalism is democracy, any sex is good sex, and that Twinkies are food.
At dawn we decided to go fishing. What I couldn't see in the dark was that there was a small lake behind the house, and apparently the lake was stocked with fish. Because we had only unpacked the alcohol, we decided to drive the three hundred feet to the lake.
* NEXT UP: Part III -- We Actually Fish, But Not Really.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
My Deliverance — A Simple Fishing Story: Part I
The summer after I graduated from high school, I spent most of my evenings watching softball games at the city park. Unlike a lot of young people hanging out, I was actually watching the softball. I guess I was quiet. And shy. I didn't aggressively seek out adventure. Maybe I should have, but one night, the adventure sought me, instead.
One of my friends, I'll call him Freddie, found me at the softball fields and invited me to go fishing with him. I was probably his second or third choice (Marc would have had a date, and Charles would have been golfing early the next morning) but it fit my schedule just fine.
The plan was to drive during the night to a cottage on a lake in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and be ready to fish that lake early in the morning. It was seven-thirty when I heard all this, so we had a few hours to pack, gather supplies, and pick up his father for the trip. Freddie's father was on the local police force, and his shift ended at midnight. We'd be at the cottage by three A.M.
Freddie picked me up at about nine o'clock, and we first had to track down Melanie V., who had the most reliable fake I.D.. We went to a convenience store (so called convenience because they conveniently didn't wonder why our white friend's Driver's License said she was 34 and black) and bought a case and a half of beer, a pound of baloney, and a loaf of white bread. Oh, and some ice for the beer.
We drove around town to kill time, and picked up Freddie's father (I'll call him Mr. J.) from the police station at midnight. He drove. Our first stop was at the local tavern where Mr. J went in the back door and emerged with what turned out to be a brown paper bag with a fifth of gin, some plastic cups, and a bottle of tonic water.
I was in the back seat with the cooler and the gin. The first order of business was to fix a drink for Mr. J, who was driving, and couldn't be distracted by pouring gin into a cup (safety first!). I immediately revealed my ignorance for pouring too weak of a drink, and for not having purchased lime.
Freddie and I drank Stroh's. I don't remember what we talked about. It was one of the first times I had been around Mr. J, and I really didn't know him as anything other than the three hundred pound cop who happened to be my friend's father. I have to believe we talked about drinking beer. We were seventeen and had a limited view of the world, so talking about drinking beer while drinking beer is par for the course. Besides, I was kept pretty busy refilling Mr. J's cup.
* NEXT UP: Part II -- another of my flaws is revealed.
One of my friends, I'll call him Freddie, found me at the softball fields and invited me to go fishing with him. I was probably his second or third choice (Marc would have had a date, and Charles would have been golfing early the next morning) but it fit my schedule just fine.
The plan was to drive during the night to a cottage on a lake in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and be ready to fish that lake early in the morning. It was seven-thirty when I heard all this, so we had a few hours to pack, gather supplies, and pick up his father for the trip. Freddie's father was on the local police force, and his shift ended at midnight. We'd be at the cottage by three A.M.
Freddie picked me up at about nine o'clock, and we first had to track down Melanie V., who had the most reliable fake I.D.. We went to a convenience store (so called convenience because they conveniently didn't wonder why our white friend's Driver's License said she was 34 and black) and bought a case and a half of beer, a pound of baloney, and a loaf of white bread. Oh, and some ice for the beer.
We drove around town to kill time, and picked up Freddie's father (I'll call him Mr. J.) from the police station at midnight. He drove. Our first stop was at the local tavern where Mr. J went in the back door and emerged with what turned out to be a brown paper bag with a fifth of gin, some plastic cups, and a bottle of tonic water.
I was in the back seat with the cooler and the gin. The first order of business was to fix a drink for Mr. J, who was driving, and couldn't be distracted by pouring gin into a cup (safety first!). I immediately revealed my ignorance for pouring too weak of a drink, and for not having purchased lime.
Freddie and I drank Stroh's. I don't remember what we talked about. It was one of the first times I had been around Mr. J, and I really didn't know him as anything other than the three hundred pound cop who happened to be my friend's father. I have to believe we talked about drinking beer. We were seventeen and had a limited view of the world, so talking about drinking beer while drinking beer is par for the course. Besides, I was kept pretty busy refilling Mr. J's cup.
* NEXT UP: Part II -- another of my flaws is revealed.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
A Series of Mysterious Events
Thursday evenings are trash night for me, meaning that I have to gather up trash from around the house and put the trash dumpster out on the curb. Trash is picked up on Friday mornings, and they claim the right to pickup starting at seven a.m., and you don't want to miss it.
In the past, these evenings--"trash night" as I call it--has been a moment of contemplative solitude for me. I am alone and performing an ordinary, rudimentary task, allowing my mind to wander a bit. It is not a form of meditation, but it is calming for me, marking the end of a week. I handle our trash with my hands, and I have a sense of the proportion of our activity. If we have had a party or friends staying for the weekend, there will be more trash than usual. If I have been in the mood to dispose of things (and there is much need for that mood) there will be large bags stuffed with now useless toys or household goods. It helps record in my mind what things have been like for me during the week.
On occasion, I've realized that there was not much in the dumpster, and so I've questioned myself what has happened that the amount of trash is down. I worry that I left the laundry room trash can unchecked, or that maybe there are things lingering in the corner of the garage that perhaps could be discarded.
The most interesting dumpster story happened many years ago, back when my Poobrador, Blue, was still alive (a Poobrador is a Poodle-Labrador mix--my own invented name). I was taking him for a walk late one trash night. I carried two bags of kitchen trash out to the dumpster and then continued on into the night with Blue on a leash.
When we returned, Blue began barking at the dumpster. He would not quiet down, and would not relent. He focused on the dumpster as if he were a drug-sniffing canine, and Scarface himself was in the dumpster.
I began to suspect there might be a rat inside. It was garbage, after all, and rats have to eat something and somewhere. I gathered my courage and flipped open the lid of the dumpster. A raccoon was inside the dumpster, and raised his head and stared at us. Sometime during our walk, he must have gotten inside, drawn by one of the bags. Blue, of course, went berserk.
This week, early in the evening of Trash Night, I noticed that one of our trash bags had been left out next to the garage, and the bag was shredded and our kitchen refuse, egg shells, wrappers, and spoiled food, was now scattered across our lawn. Whoever the culprit, they must have taken the bag with the intention of dropping it in the dumpster, but failed to complete the final three feet of the journey.
I did not rush to clean the mess; instead, I treated it as a crime scene.
My wife had no memory of carrying out a trash bag and leaving it short of its destination. But neither could she account for her whereabouts on Sunday evening which, by my examination of the refuse is when that bag made its way outside (there was a blueberry yogurt container amongst the mess, and I recalled eating blueberry yogurt Sunday morning). The easiest thing would have been for her to blame our son, but she didn't recall asking him to take out the trash.
I next interrogated my son. He claimed to have not taken any trash outside at all in several weeks. I believed him. For him to do anything resembling work, it requires an amount of nagging that makes it impossible to forget, and it is extremely unlikely that he would remove the trash from the kitchen and take it outside without being asked to do so.
Our daughter does not even know where the dumpster sits, such is her lot in life that she does not deal with garbage.
I was suspicious once again of my wife. Is it possible that she took the trash out with good intention, but was distracted in her task and left it in harm's way? I brought her to the scene of the crime, and pointed out in particular the yogurt container that suggested to me that this was trash brought out no earlier than Sunday, and likely no later than Monday (we generate about one bag each day). There was a wrapper from a Nestle Crunch bar, an empty cream cheese container, coffee grounds, apple cores, banana peels, school papers, plastic ware, and scraps of food, all of which scattered in the section of yard next to our garage. Our dogs had had a field day with this, I assumed, but there was the possibility of a raccoon making the mess during the night.
My wife clung to her story of not remembering having taken out the trash and leaving it in the yard. I was forced to let her go. As often happens on Law and Order, I did not have sufficient evidence to press charges. I put on work gloves and picked up the trash, bagging it in a new, fresh pull string bag.
There is, of course, the slim possibility that I left it there, but it is my habit to take trash directly to the dumpster, and not linger or explore. I hate to think I could do such a thing to myself, creating, indirectly a mess that I would have to clean. Truth be told, however, I couldn't account for my whereabouts on Sunday evening either.
In the past, these evenings--"trash night" as I call it--has been a moment of contemplative solitude for me. I am alone and performing an ordinary, rudimentary task, allowing my mind to wander a bit. It is not a form of meditation, but it is calming for me, marking the end of a week. I handle our trash with my hands, and I have a sense of the proportion of our activity. If we have had a party or friends staying for the weekend, there will be more trash than usual. If I have been in the mood to dispose of things (and there is much need for that mood) there will be large bags stuffed with now useless toys or household goods. It helps record in my mind what things have been like for me during the week.
On occasion, I've realized that there was not much in the dumpster, and so I've questioned myself what has happened that the amount of trash is down. I worry that I left the laundry room trash can unchecked, or that maybe there are things lingering in the corner of the garage that perhaps could be discarded.
The most interesting dumpster story happened many years ago, back when my Poobrador, Blue, was still alive (a Poobrador is a Poodle-Labrador mix--my own invented name). I was taking him for a walk late one trash night. I carried two bags of kitchen trash out to the dumpster and then continued on into the night with Blue on a leash.
When we returned, Blue began barking at the dumpster. He would not quiet down, and would not relent. He focused on the dumpster as if he were a drug-sniffing canine, and Scarface himself was in the dumpster.
I began to suspect there might be a rat inside. It was garbage, after all, and rats have to eat something and somewhere. I gathered my courage and flipped open the lid of the dumpster. A raccoon was inside the dumpster, and raised his head and stared at us. Sometime during our walk, he must have gotten inside, drawn by one of the bags. Blue, of course, went berserk.
This week, early in the evening of Trash Night, I noticed that one of our trash bags had been left out next to the garage, and the bag was shredded and our kitchen refuse, egg shells, wrappers, and spoiled food, was now scattered across our lawn. Whoever the culprit, they must have taken the bag with the intention of dropping it in the dumpster, but failed to complete the final three feet of the journey.
I did not rush to clean the mess; instead, I treated it as a crime scene.
My wife had no memory of carrying out a trash bag and leaving it short of its destination. But neither could she account for her whereabouts on Sunday evening which, by my examination of the refuse is when that bag made its way outside (there was a blueberry yogurt container amongst the mess, and I recalled eating blueberry yogurt Sunday morning). The easiest thing would have been for her to blame our son, but she didn't recall asking him to take out the trash.
I next interrogated my son. He claimed to have not taken any trash outside at all in several weeks. I believed him. For him to do anything resembling work, it requires an amount of nagging that makes it impossible to forget, and it is extremely unlikely that he would remove the trash from the kitchen and take it outside without being asked to do so.
Our daughter does not even know where the dumpster sits, such is her lot in life that she does not deal with garbage.
I was suspicious once again of my wife. Is it possible that she took the trash out with good intention, but was distracted in her task and left it in harm's way? I brought her to the scene of the crime, and pointed out in particular the yogurt container that suggested to me that this was trash brought out no earlier than Sunday, and likely no later than Monday (we generate about one bag each day). There was a wrapper from a Nestle Crunch bar, an empty cream cheese container, coffee grounds, apple cores, banana peels, school papers, plastic ware, and scraps of food, all of which scattered in the section of yard next to our garage. Our dogs had had a field day with this, I assumed, but there was the possibility of a raccoon making the mess during the night.
My wife clung to her story of not remembering having taken out the trash and leaving it in the yard. I was forced to let her go. As often happens on Law and Order, I did not have sufficient evidence to press charges. I put on work gloves and picked up the trash, bagging it in a new, fresh pull string bag.
There is, of course, the slim possibility that I left it there, but it is my habit to take trash directly to the dumpster, and not linger or explore. I hate to think I could do such a thing to myself, creating, indirectly a mess that I would have to clean. Truth be told, however, I couldn't account for my whereabouts on Sunday evening either.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Two Theories of Sleep
The theory of circadian rhythms is that we have an observable pattern of behaviors we experience each day, the two most obvious of which are being awake and being asleep; being sleepy during your wakefulness is part of that, but not as obvious. There are also rhythms to our sleep: we go through, or attempt to go through, multiple three-hours cycles of dozing, light sleep, deeper sleep, R.E.M. sleep, and then back to light sleep. If you wake up in the middle of the night, you probably just came out of one of the cycles, and you'll repeat it if you allow yourself to fall back asleep.
I have recently been getting by with six hours, or less, of sleep. It's been going on for a while, and I'm not particularly sleepy during the day, so I believe it's enough for me. I've been able to put this to a more controlled test because I am traveling and sleeping in a comfortable bed without distractions, and I have consistently woken up before my alarm in under six hours and feeling awake and refreshed. I am also not waking up in the middle of the night.
But what if some internal alarm is awaking me, and I'm not consciously acknowledging it? What if I simply have to pee, and although I don't wake with a strong urge in place, my bladder is quietly signaling my brain that this is going to have to happen soon, and you may as well stop sleeping now, rather than go for a third cycle?
I'm in a hotel room. I have exact control of the room temperature, and it is comfortable--exactly the way I want it. I have a large, comfortable bed, and a pillow I would fight to keep. The room is dark (although I do leave the bathroom light on, and the door closed, so there is a small amount of light at the crack of the door along the floor; it's basically a night-light--I don't want to get scared). I requested an interior room away from street noise, and there are no obnoxious, drunk salesmen on the floor with prostitutes throwing parties (or if there are, I wasn't invited and they are quiet about it).
At home my sleep is assaulted by the following: my spouse using her laptop, her discomfort with the covers/pillow/temperature, the dogs moving about, the cat climbing on top of me, the dogs barking because a car drove past, the temperature out of whack because the kids adjusted the thermostat, or the kids themselves dealing with bad dreams by waking me up. For now, all of that is eliminated.
What's left is the reality that a few minutes after I wake up, I need to pee.
Well what of it? The only way I can imagine removing this from the list of possible interruptions is to insert a catheter and a drain bag. Those items can't be terribly expensive, but inserting the tube might be a trick (note to self: check YouTube for video on inserting catheter).
Even if I could eliminate the bladder issue, there are other, natural biological needs that might also signal the brain to wake me up because the inevitable is going to happen; as far as I know, there is no equivalent catheter for that. (Note to self: do not, I repeat, do NOT check YouTube for a video on that subject, because I'm sure it's there!)
I think I'm okay with six hours of sleep. I don't think I'm risking heart disease, and I'm not staggering into traffic, and my cognitive performance seems fine (but, then, how can I trust myself to judge that if my thinking is clouded?). My only dilemma now is sneaking the pillow out of this hotel.
I have recently been getting by with six hours, or less, of sleep. It's been going on for a while, and I'm not particularly sleepy during the day, so I believe it's enough for me. I've been able to put this to a more controlled test because I am traveling and sleeping in a comfortable bed without distractions, and I have consistently woken up before my alarm in under six hours and feeling awake and refreshed. I am also not waking up in the middle of the night.
But what if some internal alarm is awaking me, and I'm not consciously acknowledging it? What if I simply have to pee, and although I don't wake with a strong urge in place, my bladder is quietly signaling my brain that this is going to have to happen soon, and you may as well stop sleeping now, rather than go for a third cycle?
I'm in a hotel room. I have exact control of the room temperature, and it is comfortable--exactly the way I want it. I have a large, comfortable bed, and a pillow I would fight to keep. The room is dark (although I do leave the bathroom light on, and the door closed, so there is a small amount of light at the crack of the door along the floor; it's basically a night-light--I don't want to get scared). I requested an interior room away from street noise, and there are no obnoxious, drunk salesmen on the floor with prostitutes throwing parties (or if there are, I wasn't invited and they are quiet about it).
At home my sleep is assaulted by the following: my spouse using her laptop, her discomfort with the covers/pillow/temperature, the dogs moving about, the cat climbing on top of me, the dogs barking because a car drove past, the temperature out of whack because the kids adjusted the thermostat, or the kids themselves dealing with bad dreams by waking me up. For now, all of that is eliminated.
What's left is the reality that a few minutes after I wake up, I need to pee.
Well what of it? The only way I can imagine removing this from the list of possible interruptions is to insert a catheter and a drain bag. Those items can't be terribly expensive, but inserting the tube might be a trick (note to self: check YouTube for video on inserting catheter).
Even if I could eliminate the bladder issue, there are other, natural biological needs that might also signal the brain to wake me up because the inevitable is going to happen; as far as I know, there is no equivalent catheter for that. (Note to self: do not, I repeat, do NOT check YouTube for a video on that subject, because I'm sure it's there!)
I think I'm okay with six hours of sleep. I don't think I'm risking heart disease, and I'm not staggering into traffic, and my cognitive performance seems fine (but, then, how can I trust myself to judge that if my thinking is clouded?). My only dilemma now is sneaking the pillow out of this hotel.
Labels: personal growth, story
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