It’s 4:42 AM and I am wide-awake, again. This keeps happening—I fall asleep, and then wake up 3 or 4 or sometimes even 2 hours later, and I’m up, regardless of what time it is. It’s dark outside; the world outside my windows is quiet, yet I am awake. I’ve had spates—and one serious phase—of insomnia in the past, but this is absurd, and I’m not sure it qualifies as insomnia if I actually do fall asleep. It’s not really the act of falling asleep that’s the problem—it’s staying asleep! Even with assistance (prescribed by a medical professional), I cannot sleep through the night. And it’s not as if I’m not tired; I’m not the type of person who can function on 3 or 4 hours of sleep several times a week (plus I interact with students all day long, and I often advise them in regard to their classes, so focusing is important). I should stop drinking liquids at 10 PM so I don’t have to wake up to pee. I’m not even eating dinner (or snacks) late. [TMI?]
The oddest part is that in the past, my insomnia (or just poor sleeping patterns in general) was an indication of internal strife; however, I am the happiest and calmest I have been in a very long time. I love my new apartment and my new neighborhood; in 6 weeks the spring semester will end and a summer full of quiet/fun/personally productive work days will begin; over the summer, I’ll take at least 5 of my 6 weeks of vacation; spring will be here any minute now, which leads to summer (my favorite season); CLOSER TO FINE has been nominated for a national literary award; and I’ve started outlining/preparing to start a new novel. So why can’t I sleep for more than 4 consecutive hours? Any ideas? Advice? I’ll try anything (except warm milk, or any milk-related cures).
Now it’s 5:10 (I spent ten minutes staring into space, petting a cat, reading a friend’s blog). The sun will be up in an hour, and the big question looms: sleep away half of a sunny Sunday, or get up, work out, take a walk down Amsterdam to see all the people decked out in their Easter best, then come home and take a nap, because by then I will be t-i-r-e-d.
I have no idea if anyone except my Canadian friend reads my blogs, but I’m going to continue posting, with my usual irregularity. I’m sitting at my laptop with a plastic bag on my head; underneath said plastic bag are layers of saran wrap. Underneath the saran wrap is my hair, coated and clumped with thick, heavy henna. I typically have my hair colored a few times a year, because my color is just bland, and it bores me. Usually I lean toward auburn, but my life has been so full of changes this year that I decided my hair color should echo, and celebrate, these changes. So I bought some dark brown henna, trying to respect the recession by coloring my own hair. I’d done it once before, when I lived in Hampton Bays, and though I remember a bit of a mess, I don’t think I recalled it accurately: this stuff makes a f*%#ing mess. And it’s a serious burden on my head—imagine balancing a pound of mud on your head. Plus, I’m hot—my head is wrapped in layers of plastic! This is the last piece of evidence I need—I’m just not the Do-It-Yourself kind of person. Whether it’s putting furniture together, installing WiFi or dyeing my hair, I’d rather just hire someone to do it for me, honestly. It’s not that I’m lazy—I clean like a pro and actually (usually) enjoy it. I like being part of DIY projects—I’m just not good at executing them. I blame it all on my abhorrence and fear of math—all that measuring, tinkering, drilling, wiring—it reminds me of math (don’t ask how I’m connecting math to henna, just go with my flow here). Now when the other side of the brain is needed—like for editing an admissions essay, doing a crossword puzzle, proofreading absolutely anything, writing a novel—then I’m the one you call. Words stimulate me; numbers unsettle me.
I am almost settled in my new apartment, back in the city at last (just a few more shelves, and artwork, need to go up; fortunately I possess fantastic friends who don’t mind drilling and hammering on my behalf). I love my apartment—it’s in a cool old building that isn’t too old but isn’t rows of box apartments on top of one another. My apartment is newly renovated—it’s a studio, but a big, L-shaped studio with a generous entryway and large bathroom. I love my neighborhood, too; it’s full of professionals, students and families and, best of all, lots of dogs. The architecture is stunning—I’ve decided I live on one of the prettiest blocks in the city, architecturally-speaking. The details are amazing—it’s incredible how much more pride people took in their work 50 years ago. And they had less machinery but still managed to create gorgeous columns, ledges, balconies and other architectural aspects I don’t know the names of. I’m quite close to Riverside Park, and there’s a small but pretty park on my block, hidden by a colossal wall covered in vines. I’m near everything I need—subway, restaurants, bodegas, stores—but my block is really quiet. Perfect combination! I’m never moving. Really, I’ve moved more this year than most people do in ten years. If I lean toward the “everything happens for a reason” credo, I guess I had to endure the journey to enjoy the reward. And things right now are terrific—I’m even outlining, researching and naming characters for my new novel, and almost ready to send out the TV scripts a friend and I have written—and I’m happily embracing all life offers me.
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