My equilibrium has been completely thrown off.
After sleeping some nights eight, ten, even twelve hours, the feeling of being rested and refreshed eludes me.
Light filtering through the shades this morning awakened me at 5:45 a.m. My head was full of cotton and time and space were unclear. Was it Sunday? Was it Tuesday? Was this my apartment in Brooklyn? I went back to sleep.
An hour and a half later, I awaked from a dream about turtles and dogs and trying to find the space to live in peace with each species, followed by another dream, somehow relating to the first, in which I was bitterly disappointed in a platinum blond, corkscrew curl wig. Emerging from dream-sleep, the bedroom was stifling, though the windows were open and a breeze shoved the shades across the wide windowsills, then sucked them back in, shoved them out, sucked them in. I went back to sleep.
Between 8 and 8:45 a.m. I drifted in and out of consciousness, startled awake by a street sweeper, or maybe a garbage truck, or a delivery truck, or groups of children on the street a floor below, on their way to church, or school, or maybe they weren’t children at all, but groups of young people, gossiping on their phones, or maybe they weren’t young people at all, but old women, chattering on their way to work, or maybe there was no one at all. I went back to sleep, until I finally awakened and forced myself out of bed.
This is what life is like in New York, at least for right now. I’m trying to wake up, to figure things out, to place myself in time and space, to determine what is real and what is a dream, or an idea. It’s hard to know what is concrete or imaginary, what is urgent, what can be put off for another hour, day, week, year.