Good Sleep, I Miss You

I’ve been sleeping like crap, which is no surprise, and I’m sure I’m not alone. Some stuff, you just can’t do much about and you have to ride it out, you know? Other stuff you can, so I’m trying to get back into walking the dog in the morning, which, frankly, I’ve not done since the flood. It’s just been too wet to walk through yards over to Lloyd, and by wet, I mean, muddy soup.

But I’m desperate. It’s not that I’m not tired. Last night, I kept falling asleep on the couch starting about 7:30, just sitting here upright and nodding off. It’s that, when I go to bed, I don’t sleep any better than that. I feel half-asleep, more aware of what’s going on in the rest of the house. At least, with apnea, when you wake up, you get up, go to the bathroom, putz around–you become fully awake.

This is more like I can’t quite wake up and can’t quite sink far enough into sleep.

So, today, I got up and walked the dog. It’s the only antediluvian thing I hadn’t been doing.

And now, my feet are wet and muddy and cold.

But it was worth it to see the crawdad towers stretched out over five back yards.  Makes me feel like, somehow, we’re living on a fragile crust of land over a vast inland sea, like, if something could have a top shore, our yards are it.

When W. came over to look at the hole in our front yard, a while back, I was laughing and telling him how, when we planted the Tennessee State Library and Archives, which, you may recall, is a willow tree, we found that there was water at the bottom of the hole not a whole shovel spade deep.

When I was walking the dog this morning, there were places in our yards where I would step, sink in a little bit, and then my footprints would fill with water.

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One thought on “Good Sleep, I Miss You

  1. “But it was worth it to see the crawdad towers stretched out over five back yards. Makes me feel like, somehow, we’re living on a fragile crust of land over a vast inland sea, like, if something could have a top shore, our yards are it.”

    You might like The Digging Leviathan, by James P Blaylock, for it too gives one the same impression.

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