The Master

Recently, my nights have been better. Sleep comes and stays. I wake up, but not for long. Rested, that’s what I am. Although last night was a bit challenging. Vis-à-vis reality.

Somewhere deep inside my body there was a sound. A staccato moan. Or a sort of cry. I timed my breathing to see if this sound varied. It didn’t. What was the source? What horrible thing was going wrong? Something to do with swallowing? Apparently not breathing? Or the brain itself?

I have learned that if there is anything to do at such moments it is to sit up. I really can’t do this under traditional neuromuscular power, so I hit a bedside switch and crank myself up mechanically. Thus, good fortune and electromechanical design.

Sitting up, logicality returns. It returns and also some surprises. On this occasion, a cat stirred. The black one. named Paprika…for historical reasons not worth the digression. The cats had been sleeping on my head. And even though the sound was now fully explained, my soul was not quite ready for rest. So I sat there, waiting for anxiety to fade and sleep to return. Which it did. I fell asleep sitting up. Not bad.

The rosy-fingered dawn is very much in evidence at the south-facing rear of our house. I stayed in bed reading Edna O’Brien’s most delightful novel of Ireland, of course, and the Balkans, unexpectedly. Great to be in the hands of the master. And not have anything wrong with my head.

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