Can you sing the song by Roy Orbison? It goes:
A candy-colored clown they call the sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night,
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper,
“Go to sleep, everything is all right.”
Unlike my wife, I am untroubled by insomnia. Bedtime for me is sweet release. No tossing and turning. I could be marooned on the wreckage of my past and still sleep it off. I might be frozen by fear of the future but sleep through it. I attribute this ability to my highly developed defenses of denial and suppression.
Not that I’m pathological. Far from it. I view bedtime as a break from blindness, a respite from clenched teeth and hypervigilance. Eyes open or eyes closed, it’s all mellow. I float in cushioned cotton, without fear of going bump in the night. As long as I disturb no one by snoring, I feel my pleasure is harmless, my crimes are victimless.
I read in bed. The best invention of the millennium is the sleep timer. I have it on my NLS digital book player and my Victor Reader Stream. I hit the fifteen-minute snooze button and, if I’m still awake when it runs out, I hit it again. Back in the days of cassette books, just try to find your place the next morning.
However pleasant I find sleep, I find true joy in dreams. Dreams are my primary source of visual entertainment. Every night, a Technicolor triple feature! Cruising in my ’69 red Camaro. Trotting around an emerald green baseball diamond.
I’ve read the first half of a book called The Psychology of Blindness. It’s very interesting. The second half is all about dreams. I’m choosing to skip that part. Too much information takes the fun out of things.
Some experts say we dream all the time, except when we’re awake, we put a stop to it before it gets ridiculous. Sometimes, when I’m sleepy, I’ll start thinking about one thing and finish the thought thinking about something else. Like just now, I started thinking about dreams and ended up thinking about soup. It was silly, just like a dream. OK, time for bed.