To Sleep Or Not

A horse in the front yard.

I’m in bed, reading Edith Grossman’s superlative Don Quixote translation. The errant knight just delivered a long “harangue” which Cervantes (via Grossman) suggests “could very easily have been omitted.” The harangue is about the Golden Age, a blissful era when people “did not know the two words thine and mine” and no one had to work for food. In Don Q’s modern 1605 view, the world had once been a socialist utopia.

I’ve reached the state wherein the eyes follow the print across the page without communicating about that journey to the brain. I turn out my light; Phil finishes his Ambrose Bierce story, turns out his and we go to sleep. That is, Phil goes to sleep, instantly, as he always does. I envy him for this ability. I toss, re-arrange coverings and plump pillows a few times, generally soon follow him.

But not always. You’d think, after all these years, I’d recognize the signs that this is one of those times and just get up. But I don’t. I want to sleep. Which brings me to the horse in the front yard. Phil’s sound asleep, I’ve done the usual tossing and plumping and my mind is still skipping around like a four-year-old. Suddenly, I’m imagining going out on my front porch with an apple in my hand which I’ve taken a bite from, and there’s a horse on my lawn, looking at me.

What the hell? A horse? I turn over, flip pillows to the cool side. Phil pays no attention to me, goes on sleeping. He’s annoying. The horse is a bright chestnut with a white splash down the nose. Obviously, I must secure this horse: it can’t be roaming the streets of Denver. And I must feed it. (Phil says that’s my first impulse with any live creature I come across.) I hold the apple out for the horse to smell, lead it toward the fenced back yard.

Why am I composing this highly unlikely scenario? Just shut up, I tell myself, turning over again. Today I shopped for summer tops, but it was a barely satisfying experience. Many of the nicest ones were sleeveless and these nasty old upper arms don’t do sleeveless. I blame Michelle Obama. Phil begins to snore.

Maybe I’ll write an essay about The Wild Animal Sanctuary, or a childhood memoir, have to decide that soon. I turn over again, cannot get comfortable, remember the old blues song, “Rocks in My Bed.” Did I lock the back door?

Once you’ve asked yourself such a question, the burglars start creeping into the yard. No help for it: I get up, tiptoe down the hall. Phil keeps snoring. Downstairs, everything’s locked. I drink some water, go to the bathroom, pace around. Tomorrow I’ll go to the farmer’s market, decide on the essay, wash the kitchen floor, thin those overgrown day lilies.

I check the sprinkler controller. Ha! It wasn’t set to come on. I knew I forgot something. I go back to bed. Surely I’ll sleep now. It’s been nearly two hours since we turned out the lights. Phil doesn’t stir, has stopped snoring. I close my eyes.

Impossible to get that horse to the back yard without something to hang onto, better put a halter on it. No, wait, let’s say I’m working in the backyard to begin with. I open the gate to the alley to toss weeds in the dumpster and there’s this horse, wearing bridle and saddle, trotting down the alley, stirrups swinging. Seeing the open gate, it simply veers into the yard and starts grazing on my lawn like it’s home at last. It’s a bay, with black points, mane, tail and legs. Thirsty. Drinks from the birdbath. I look up and down the alley for a rider. Nothing.

Who should I call? But first, I’ll fill a pail with water and get that apple, which in this version isn’t in my hand. Then I’ll take a photo with my phone, post it on the neighborhood Faceback page. Anyone missing a horse? It’ll be a pleasant change from the usual “I lost/found this cat or dog” we see on that page daily.

Suddenly I note the letters DPD tooled into the saddle leather. This could be serious. I dial 911, tell the dispatcher, “you may have an officer down.”

Damn! Where is the off switch for this brain? A: this is a stupid story. Does the police department even have horse patrols any more? B: I don’t write stories, so why am I writing this one? I turn over for the hundredth time, shoulders aching. Tonight I have a horse in the yard and rocks in the bed, can’t get rid of either.

At three a.m. Phil wakes up, his mind buzzing. He spends an hour cruising the internet, but I know nothing about it. By then, thank heaven, I’m sound asleep.

This entry was posted in Humor. Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to To Sleep Or Not

  1. winnie barrett says:

    Hey, I’m gonna try making a story tonight. Maybe it’ll turn into a dream?
    I’ve finally discovered that if I go to bed at 10 or 10:30 I sleep better than if I go to bed at 12 or 1 or 2. But waking up at 4 or 5 isn’t my cup of tea, though Mother Nature seems to think it should be.
    Having been in concert recently with our chorus (75 woman) I awake singing, those rascally songs rehearsed soooo many times, still stuck in my head, especially the “Caffeine Overload Polka”. Why not a lullaby? my brain just wants to jump around! This is one of the bad things about aging.
    Next time I see you I’ll sing this one for you!

    XXOO,
    Winnie

  2. Bob Jaeger says:

    Great description, Pat. Loved the “mind skipping around like a four year old.” Oh, those sleepless nights.

  3. I love this post! It puts me in mind of one of my favorite Louis Simpson poems:

    PHYSICAL UNIVERSE
    by Louis Simpson

    He woke at five and, unable
    to go back to sleep,
    went downstairs.

    A book was lying on the table
    where his son had done his homework.
    He took it into the kitchen,
    made coffee, poured himself a cup,
    and settled down to read.

    “There was a local eddy in the swirling gas
    of the primordial galaxy,
    and a cloud was formed, the protosun,
    as wide as the present solar system.

    This contracted. Some of the gas
    formed a diffuse, spherical nebula,
    a thin disk, that cooled and flattened.
    Pulled one way by its own gravity,
    the other way by the sun,
    it broke, forming smaller clouds,
    the protoplanets. Earth
    was 2,000 times as wide as it is now.:

    The earth was without form, and void,
    and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

    *

    “Then the sun began to shine,
    dispelling the gases and vapors,
    shrinking the planets, melting earth,
    separating iron and silicate
    to form the core and mantle.
    Continents appeared . . .”

    history, civilization,
    the discovery of America
    and the settling of Green Harbor,
    bring us to Tuesday, the seventh of July.

    Tuesday, the day they pick up the garbage!
    He leapt into action,
    took the garbage bag out of its container,
    tied it with a twist of wire,
    and carried it out to the toolshed,
    taking care not to let the screen door slam,
    and put it in the large garbage can
    that was three-quarters full.
    He kept it in the toolshed so the raccoons
    couldn’t get at it.

    He carried the can out to the road,
    then went back into the house
    and walked around, picking up newspapers
    and fliers for: “Thomson Seedless Grapes,
    California’s finest sweet eating”;

    “Scott Bathroom Tissue”;

    “Legislative report from Senator Ken LaValle.”

    He put all this paper in a box,
    and emptied the waste baskets in the two
    downstairs bathrooms,
    and the basket in the study.

    He carried the box out to the road,
    taking care not to let the screen door slam,
    and placed the box net to the garbage.

    Now let the garbage men come!

    *

    He went back upstairs.
    Susan said, “Did you put out the garbage?”
    But her eyes were closed.
    She was sleeping, yet could speak in her sleep,
    ask a question, even answer one.

    “Yes,” he said, and climbed into bed.
    She turned around to face him,
    with her eyes still closed.

    He thought, perhaps she’s an oracle,
    speaking from the Collective Unconscious.
    He said to her, “Do you agree with Darwin
    that people and monkeys have a common ancestor?
    Or should we stick to the Bible?”

    She said, “Did you take out the garbage?”

    “Yes,” he said, for the second time.
    Then thought about it. Her answer
    had something in it of the sublime.
    Like a koan . . . the kind of irrelevance
    a Zen master says to the disciple
    who is asking riddles of the universe.

    He put his arm around her,
    and she continued breathe evenly
    from the depths of sleep.

  4. Teresa says:

    I become joyful every time gmail proclaims “Dubrava posted”. I am never disappointed. Thanks.

  5. Agustin Cadena says:

    How nice! And the poem shared by Joseph Hutchison is beautiful!

  6. Jana Clark says:

    Too bad you don’t “write” stories, Pat. That horse was exactly like a character that won’t rest until you write his/her story. Perhaps you are psychic. Did you call the police in the morning to find out if they had lost a horse the night before? Tell them you are a writer and they will understand. Thanks to Joe Hutchison for that great poem!! See what you started here? I just hope I can forget this entry before I turn out the lights tonight.

  7. patti bippus says:

    You sure you weren’t dreaming??

Comments are closed.