Bedways is Rightways NOW.

Posted: June 2, 2010 in graffiti living
Tags: , , ,

It’s been one of those days. You get home from work and all you want to do is sleep. But sleep debt robs you of energy, like the thief, work, has robbed you of time. Then insomnia stays up all night – counting the hours, calculating the odds. Dreams shout at you like women from other rooms, until morning breaks the window and you begin all over again. In short, I need to go to bed. But I also need to write something first!

I’m hideously sleep deprived, but have just gotten past the point of feeling tired. So I know that once I have written this, I will lie awake for hours picking over the day just gone, and wondering how best to make the most of tomorrow.

This is an unedited and extemporaneous post, so I shall blame the following observations on sleep deprivation. Today has been the first day of trying to ACT RIGHT NOW, and already this has led to some strange effects. The universe wants to play. That doesn’t mean that it always plays NICE.

I spent most of the day in a bureaucratic fugue – filling in forms, on hold on the telephone, watching emails bounce back, and swearing at my computer. Trying to get hold of people, trying to make things happen. Convinced that I’d left it too late, I inched forwards as the day flew past.

In the end, I thought better of it, crawled out from under my paperwork and headed for the door. Nothing really happened until I gave up and stepped outside. Then it turned into an episode of the Twilight Zone.

The universe has a sense of humour. It has teased me all day. If it had a mouth, it would be saying, “You first.” Do nothing, and it gives you nothing. But take enough steps in any given direction, and it warps the world around you.

Enough rambling, I’m off to bed. NanoBloPoMo’s writing prompt for the day is “What is your favourite poem?” So here is one of my favourites by Lorca. Why it’s a favourite is a story for another night, but it seems quite appropriate now:

City That Does Not Sleep – Lorca

In the sky there is nobody asleep.Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the

Nobody is asleep on earth.Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream.Careful!Careful!Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful!Be careful!Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear’s teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world.No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.


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