this week’s essay went through many revisions, often in the company of my Write On writing co-hort, fascilitated by Priscilla Thomas. Looking for a cute community co-writes, a reliable group and great focused workshops? check out her offerings.
a quick reminder that if you somehow missed the reel, Studio Practice: Collage starts next week! We’ll be online Mondays 4-6 pm PST and in person in Portland Ore at Paisley Studios, noon-2 pm.
ok, on with the essay.
I think and write a lot about sleep.
My first zine, three a.m., was an ode to night owls and the cusp of night as it becomes morning. A more recent zine, The Boring Guide to Staying Inspired, confronts my need for a consistent sleep schedule. My youthful declaration of “I’ll sleep when I’m dead!” evolved into this more conservative goal: to wake without an alarm. Even the gentlest alarm startles me and I like to ease into consciousness. Also, waking without an alarm means I got enough sleep.
I was a night owl as a teen, sneaking out of the house to read poetry and find lilacs in bloom and watch the moon set1 I stayed up late with the windows open listening to Counting Crows on repeat while typing my writing into my desktop computer and slept late.
My youthful declaration of “I’ll sleep when I’m dead!” evolved into this more conservative goal: to wake without an alarm.
Out of high school, I waited tables, mostly late night shifts. I thought nine a.m. was sickeningly early. Living in Boston, I sometimes took the last train to Kenmore Square to eat a rueben and drink coffee out of a thick ceramic mug at Deli Haus. When they closed at three, I walked home across Boston University campus. Sometimes, I would stay up all night writing a zine, then take the first train to Copley Square to the Kinkos. When I moved to Seattle, I biked alley ways at night, pedaling circles around Greenlake when I couldn’t sleep. I never wanted to sleep. I got a job at a bakery and kept a night schedule. Did I sleep at all in my 20’s?
One summer I made the choice to wake early.
I was living in New Orleans, in a house without air conditioning , and could not rest in the midmorning heat. The sun began baking my door at 7 am so I chose mornings. I chose coffee and breakfast before the air turned wet like hot breath and eating lost its appeal. I chose errands before the scorching noon sun and the subsequent afternoon downpour. I choose to rest in the dark warm air that was never cool but fooled me to sleep.
Mid-afternoon has always been my least favorite time of day. It is the time I feel most uneasy, restless, lacking direction and energy. Everything seemed possible at night but afternoons felt drained of ambition. By waking early, I found a way to tolerate my least favorite time of day, with coffee or obligations. I found a rhythm that worked and stuck with it for 20 years.
Except I was always creeping back to night time. I could not reconcile my creative drive to be awake at 11 and my need for sleep. Post-concussion, I wanted 10 hours of rest every night and all the quiet I could scavenge. I often went to my home-studio-camper in the driveway to make collage after dinner, until nine or ten or midnight, even though I needed to be up at six.
Then this January, in the darkest days, I gave up the fight and worked late. At midnight, listening to Angie MacMahon on repeat, cutting and pasting paper or cleaning my studio, I remembered that teenage fire.
And I started sleeping in.
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