sleep – Clara Hsu

Sleep’s Labor

He sleeps with his mouth opens. What comes out sounds like a torrent of water, followed by a screech of the tire, a clap of lightning, rolling “r”s, a clogged pipe gurgling. Sometimes, silence. When it is, I wait, in my bleary state, for the next big gush of crashing tongue, lips and teeth inside the cavity, and the machinery is once again jump-started.

Curious, this oral acrobat shows off when he is least conscious. My cousin once said banging on a door would stop the snoring. It might work when my father was younger, but he is deaf.

His carers said they are used to it. They can sleep through the non-stop assault. I don’t believe them.

image from http://www.yournaturalsleepaids.com

The Siesta Spell

La-siesta-Pablo-Picasso-1919 — La Siesta by Pablo Picasso

Hard to understand why one feels the urge to snooze in the afternoon. Is it our natural rhythm to drift after lunch? I was startled by impatient drivers on the road when I slowed my speed to accommodate the dreamy thoughts that are often the prelude to sleep. Not a good idea. But whose idea is it? Certainly not mine. I don’t want to drive and dose at the same time. It has to be a spell of some sort, cast long ago by a magician, stored in the body and ever since then, makes timely releases.

Some additional potions that often enhance the effect of the “siesta spell” are: listening to a lecture in class, reading a book, the thoughts of laundry, bills, and various necessary chores. But the most heavenly inducement is being enfolded by a pair of arms while listening to a steady heart beat. And upon waking, realize that it is not a dream.

Foreign Invasion

Sickness came quickly. In a matter of hours the body was battled down. I crawled into bed, and for two days, it was where I stayed.

Funny how everything seemed so distant and uninteresting even though the nerves were hypersensitive. The body has its own way of dealing with foreign invasions–shutting down what’s not necessary–I let it do its work.

I slept until I couldn’t sleep anymore, and bounced out of bed like a fully charged battery. The air smelled fresh, colors came back, the mind began to question all sorts of things, and food looked incredibly inviting. It was a victory, thank you. But how did “I” do it, if in fact “I” did anything? I can’t tell you a thing.

A Late Riser’s Divulgence

waking love — Salvador Dali-- Hercules Lifts the Skin of the Sea and Stops Venus for an instant from waking Love.

Wake naturally. That means any time (of the day). Sometimes I have this kind of luxury, when the day begins at mid-morning and ends well past midnight. Night time seems to have a calming effect on me. It induces my mind to focus and be productive.

My sister-in-law said after she wakes she must get out of bed, otherwise she’ll get a headache. But I find the time when the mind begins to wake to be a magical moment. Memories, emotions and new thoughts reemerge together. Feelings come back, and sometimes with a line or two, or maybe a little tune. They don’t ask to be written down; and if I reach for a pen I disturb the delicate veil between consciousness and sleep and the magic is gone. To savor and listen and feel–although I don’t know anything about meditation, I suppose this may come close to some aspects of it.

Working Dream

My father, when he was working, used to take problems home. He stewed on them as he did household chores or listened to music or played his cello. At night, he slept on them. Many times I saw him at work, eager and excited, told me that he had solved the problem the night before while he was sleeping.

Now in his old age, the one big problem he has to solve is being able to sleep. The solution does not lie in sleeping but in waking. He tries drinking warm milk, camomile tea, or snacking a small cookie. He checks the time when he wakes and estimates the approximate time when he falls asleep. The problem, unlike his youthful ones, requires compromise. It is almost comical at times to watch the great man bowing down to a slippery teaser. But as his body wears down, his mind is still a beautiful thing.

Photo by Karen Lam.

The Planets in My Room

The planets are still, suspended in the dark as I sleep. And before waking I sense their odd shaped bodies. Not just rounded, but rectangular and pentagonal, lying in stillness, surrounding me. They are habitable. Some have a glint, like the reflection of water. Several moons have mysterious marking. Another holds human memories of youth. Father, mother, uncles and grandparents. Two have the first hint of life embedded in them. A water hole, primitive yet unmistakable. Behind my head is a little mud disc. It too, carries a pulse.

When I open my eyes I see my room as it has always been. The planets have flattened themselves on the walls and become two dimensional. The mirror, the three drums with animal hide, the aboriginal paintings, the family photos, and the little hummingbird nest with remains that I saved from a bush. Was it dream or imagination? Did the objects reveal themselves when I was receptive? I have no clue, only that I must write this down.