Supporting Audio Candy:

 

[1] The Chordettes “Mister Sandman”

[2] Dokken “Dream Warriors”

 

Were you aware that the average human spends around 36% of their lives out for the count? If I ever get my hands on that pesky Sandman I’m gonna give him what for. Who the hell does he think he is calling all the shots anyhoots? I’d wring his scrawny neck for all the hours he pilfers from me if I only had a clue how to find the rapscallion. Each night he comes and takes me against my will but never once does he leave a forwarding address. As I write this, I have just reemerged from a twelve-hour sleep marathon, and the moon has already beaten the sun into submission for another day. This has become the natural order of things over the past month or two as my jaded carcass has succumbed to all the bye-byes I have deprived it of for far too long so I suspect I have had it coming. However, the Sandman isn’t off the hook yet by a long chalk and he’s not the only one to blame either. All will become clear soon enough.

I make no secret that I have never particularly cared for sleep and prefer the other 64% of my existence to any wasteful time spent counting sheep. I would love to know who invented this pointless pastime in the first place although my sick little mind defleeces every last one of them before they attempt the high jump, which may explain why I currently omit a vague scent of lamb chops. Traditionally I can operate on four hours rest each night without too much cause for concern. Recently however, my body has begun to holler its disapproval and begun to take the decision out of my hands. When claimed by the Sandman, I am held captive while he has his way with my knackered bones and refueling commences. Like a smart phone I have been used to charging in such diminutive bursts that my battery life appears to have taken something of a hit.

When those smelling salts have prompted me forth from my slumber I have felt anything but rested. Today/night I stirred in a fit of exasperation, feeling cheated of a number of potentially productive man hours. I’ve just had a bowl of cereal when most would’ve been preparing supper and the most discouraging fact is that I still feel like death warmed up. Oh how the body loves to play its callous tricks. For the past week I have been convalescing after spending the festive season in mental squalor. It was a necessary endeavor as I needed to get down with the elements and get down I most certainly did, with more than a dash of dirty I might add. Mother earth has had her divine gums around the base of my shaft and her tongue jammed into my urethra and, while momentarily kind of arousing, it has taken its toll somewhat.

I don’t lament my decision to be at one with nature as it has afforded me the opportunity to delve deep within myself and schlep forth the most exquisite blackness and I am of the school of thought that getting into character assists in extracting the very best from yourself. Take John Belushi for example (possibly not the best illustration as his dedication to the cause was ultimately his undoing), but he attacked each performance with such doggedness that he made the burliest possible connection with the source material and extracted every last bead of capability from within. Plus he could consume a boiled egg whole and I’ll never cease being impressed by such a marvellous feat.

When I am at my most bleak I have been required to dig deep as that shit is tucked away from plain sight and appears inaccessible. Since starting out as a scribe I have discovered that the Crimson Quill offers means of ingress into the shadowy recesses within my tainted psyche. Instead of simply refusing to acknowledge their existence, I now visit habitually, drinking from the ebony font, gushing forth any findings. It has been my therapy but the kicker is that I don’t have to lay out on an uncomfortable couch listening to some fruit basket using all the tools learned in grad school to teach me how to suck an egg. I learned that shit already from Belushi.

My application to my art is maximal and has entailed writing nude in sub-zero temperatures through sheer bloody-minded belief that this would allow for authentic results. Some may view this as utter lunacy on my part, and perhaps that is so, but it has been necessary. I put everything into my work and, if I want to make a real difference through what I scribe, that is bound only to continue. It has been suggested by some that my prose appears almost spoken and that has been no fluke on my part. I wish to involve my readership in every single word. However, I have to be awake for this to be possible and the Sandman is never more than a few yawns away at any given moment. The worst thing is that I know precisely who put him up to it too. More on that soon.

I’ve always juggled for shit, multitasking is a concept I’m unfamiliar with and, in the plight that I am required to focus on two things at once, both invariably fall to the wayside. Give me one task to do however and I will give it my all…and then some. It is becoming apparent however, that my body won’t allow me to take such liberties with it and, had I not made the pilgrimage to Sir Giles’ sanctuary recently, then I would’ve been in dire straits before too much longer. They say that we sleep when we’re dead and that seems like a pretty disheartening theory to me as there is no alarm chime shrill enough to wake the dead that I’m aware of.

The Sandman remains a constant thorn in my side and he is a persistent blighter let me tell you. Right now, he is bossing Keeper and there doesn’t appear to be any way of avoiding his somnolent influence. So I have ascertained that if you can’t beat ’em you may as well join ’em and shall be guzzling strong cheddar before dusk in the hope that he throws me a bone or two. Some horrendous nightmares would make it all worthwhile, I adore a decent dose of night terrors as at least I have something to show for several hours anesthetized.

Call me a looney tune and I’ll show you my wascally wabbit, but I don’t see what all the hoo-hah is about with regards to a few harmless phantasms. I consider it akin to sneaking in to a midnight matinée and grabbing a free performance. It matters not how hostile my dreamscape as I’ll invariably wake before the end credits and it may well provide dark inspiration for any work I have afoot. Sure, it’s disheartening to feel as though wading through quicksand and the sudden feeling of nosediving is something I will never grow used to but, once I splash my face with water, it all becomes a distant memory.

I hear a lullaby is often called for as we prepare to siesta and it just so happens I packed my lute when undertaking my excursion to the Land of The Giles. It is time you were rocked to sleep and it also affords me the opportunity to have a wry dig at my nemesis, Rip Van Winkle. What a slothful bastard. It was all good before he discovered that slumber made for a rather nifty pastime. I place the blame for this whole sorry turn of events on his pillowcase.

Damn You Van Winkle

 

 

Sleep has never been my friend
or mild acquaintance even
I blame this all on you y’know
you lazy bearded heathen

 

If I should get his hands on you
my musket will be loaded
you’ve made sleep seem so darned alluring
and I’m sick of being goaded

 

Each single yawn dragooned by you
you’re really rather haughty
I just had several hundred winks
when I only requested forty

 

If our paths cross, I’ll rue the loss
of precious compo mentis
I hold you culpable for this
and it’s time that you repent this

 

’tis no real wonder that your beard
ended looking so disheveled
when I track you down you sluggish douche
you’re getting fucking leveled

 

The crimes you have committed
are more than mildly heinous
So take your Z’s if you should please
and rehome them right up your anus

 

Bitch!