I'd thought the new house had cured my insomnia; six weeks without an attack is unprecedented indeed. The past few days I've awakened at 4:30 am for no good reason, however, and last night sleep was elusive from the outset. I lay awake for 45 minutes after turning out the light. I changed positions. I moved pillows. I listened to Cha breathing. I listened to the soft splashing of the goldfish as they ate gravel and spat it out. Giving in to the inevitable, I began reading. A book on shamanic practice, Ingmar Bergman's memoirs, African folktales--even Updike's Rabbit is Rich couldn't knock me out. I went down to the kitchen and watched rats at play amongst tires and trash in the alley. The rats are bigger than cats.
Desperate, I popped in a DVD of David Lynch short films from Netflix @ 2am. His The Grandmother brought back fond memories of my own, though I don't recall growing mine from a seed found in the attic. Nor do I recall Grandmother being birthed by a monstrous phallic tree with a vagina dentata amongst its gnarled, moist roots.
Note to self: David Lynch short films are not efficacious in treating insomnia.
Today my eyes feel scraped and raw. We've got sunshine and warm temperatures for the first time in two weeks and the world feels glazed and fake as a Thomas Kincaid landscape. I can't quite get my head around Beverly Cleary, and must use her for a compare/contrast lesson. I can't quite get my head around compare/contrast either.