On occasion, sleep is sometimes evasive. Mine is quite often broken by the incessant call of nature.
It seems to be something that accompanies age. I’ve chalked it down as the price you pay for the fun you’ve had. Right or wrong, it is inevitable, seemingly as unavoidable as death and taxes.
More often than not, I reach for my bedside hospital bottle, do my tinkle, roll over, and instantly fall back to sleep.
But not this morning; early as it is, I am wide-awake. The stick-figured bedside clock is miming the time of 2:30. The back-up, battery-run tickety-tock on the wall with hands that circle continuous, though definitely of a different age and culture, argues not with the one on the dresser. It’s too early to get up, so what do you do? You lie there tossing, turning and thinking.
Most writers will tell you that most of their best writing is done during the darkest hours between sunset and sunrise. There are fewer disturbances. They will also tell you that their best coined thoughts must be immediately written down. If a thought disappears without being scrawled on something, somewhere, someplace, whether it be on the back of an envelope, the side of a Kleenex box, or the ripped-off piece of a toilet roll, it may never return.
I once wrote a poem on a piece of birch bark, after having a crap in the bush. It worked well for both occasions. Need I assure you the birch tree was minus two strips of paper-like bark? I made sure that I took home the one I had writ’ on, not the one I had sh… Hey, that rhymes – perhaps I am a poet?
My Little Lady once wrapped my knuckles with a pair of long knitting needles, ‘cause I had apparently tried to jot something on the living room wall. It could have been because we had just redecorated with beautiful, well-chosen paper. It certainly wasn’t comments about the big, bulky, knit sweater she was knitting for me. I don’t recall, but I still have the sweater. She is still keeping me warm.
Periodically, I experience what is known in the addiction as a writer’s block. This usually happens when a deadline hovers.
You may only need a couple of paragraphs to fill the gap, but that is hard to do when the mind echoes hollow, hollow, hollow. It’s similar to when a well runs dry or a pocket runs out of money – there just ain’t nothing there.
Usually, when this happens, I go for a walk. When I lived urban, this was quite easy. I could escape the glare of the streetlights by walking the Elora-Cataract rail trail. Thoughts came easy when out there under the twinkling stars. But living rural route, it is a little more difficult. It’s been recommended that I keep my nocturnal wanderings close to the buildings, within the circle of the high-poled yard light. That is not difficult when you are reminded by a pack of coyotes yodelling their hungry whereabouts just beyond the crest of a nearby hill.
I once reached out to pet a neighbour’s cat on the top rail of a fence. It answered my kindness with the snarl of a fat, ring-tailed raccoon. It was wearing a mask, so how could I tell?
That same night, the glow of the yard light showed well the twin white stripes of another seemingly friendlier shining-eyed kitten, but petting was taboo; it kept stamping its feet and had a raised tail. I wasn’t sure that we had enough tomato juice to wash the stench from a full set of skin out clothing. Besides, it was too cold to peel them off outside right then.
So now, as you can see, folks, block or no block, I have rattled sufficient to fill my space. I think I’ll just return to my bed, tinkle once again in my ever ready bottle, roll over and go back to sleep.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105