20140319 Class at Library
Wednesday, March 19, 2014, 2:17 PM I am out walking in a light rain under a clouded sky, and Yahoo said it was 50 degrees. I wearing my windbreaker. It is not toasty out here, and the wind is chilly.
I was excited to write about something, but I forget now what it was.
I ahve two writing classes tonight, the regular one and a YA one, with Gloria Whelen. Who was the Whelan from VC? The first one is from 5 to 6 and the second from 6 to 8.
Another thing I want to think and write about was insomnia. I wanted to talk to Brian Powers about Dr. macon's wanting to send me to a psychologist 1who specializes in insomnia. The Psychological roots thereof. I alsow anted to walk about the hydroxyzine and the voltaren. And darn, there was also soemthing else.
* * * * The Psychological roots of insomnia
My sleep doctor, Dr. Timorthy Macon, wants to sent me to a psychologist who specializes in insomnia. I believe that my insomnia is primarily Physiological and biochemical. There is somethingw rong with me that doctors have yet to discover.
AND, that being said, I also blieve there are psychological components. I thought of a new one. Not really new, but a slightly differnet of looking at it.
If I get up at a normal time, say 7 AM and go to bed at a normal time, I feel compelled to do my duties. I need to unload the dishwasger, try to do my exercises, prepare meals, shop, attempt to clean, attemp to sort through boxes, take care correspondance, do those things I am "Supposed" to do.
But if I can't sleep, and get up, after being awake call day and then all evening, not having slept at all, no reasoable person, including Keith and my own inner slave driver, would expect me to be working hard. No one would think, after my ebing up all day, that I should be out walking, vacuuming, doing laundry (which I almost nevber do anyway), standing at the sink washing dishes, etc. I am free to do whatever I want. Paint, for example, or write.
However, both of those activities require bright lights, which I am not supposed to use when I'm up with insomnia. And the truth is, most of the time, when I am up in the night, I'd rather be in bed. No, I'd rather be asleep. Being in bed awake is a horror show.
Still, the desire to work on a project that I haven't had time for has kept me awake nights thinking about it, and then if don't sleep, it can be tempting to get up and get a start on it. I wrote a whole 700-page book of poetry lmost entirely at night (late at night), because I didn't have time in my normalworking life to do it. That set a bad precedence.
However, I am up right now. I could sleep because of violent itching. And I'd rather, by far, be in bed sleeping..I know i said that, but I need to say it again.
I also would like to work on my story. Which I am not doing.
Also, and this has been mentioned before, I have somehow picked up the notion that sleeping is bad, shameful, and a waste of tie. Intellectually, I KNOW that sleep is essential.
I recently read that if you sleep 4 hours a night for six days, your insulin rises 3% to that of a diabetic. Losing weight becomes very difficult, and organs are damaged, including the brain. Sleeping pills do not help.
My mother used to call us "itches" when we got restless and agiated, even if there no itching involved.
* * * * Itching
I think my itching and insomnia are both worse than they have been for a few days.. Did I eat anything unusual? Tacos, but with no dairy. The taco shells had soybean oil. Soybean oil is supposed to be relatively safe, because supposedly, there isn't much soy protein in the oil. I also at some potato chips, after not having any for several days.
* * * * "Turn About's Fair Play"
No one has seen Uncle Beast. Trey and I asked everyone we met, fishermen in their boats, fisherman on the docks, kids swimming, some ladies having a picnic, and no one has seen him since the fisherman this morning, the first ones we asked.
"I think he's hiding on us," I tell Trey. I am afraid Trey will want to take back his canoe. This mist be really boring for him. But I don't want to jinx myself by saying it out loud.
"Do you think he'd leave the river?" Trey asks.
I say no. Then I think about it a little more. We're drifting downstream. Downriver, rather, of course. "Beast might tie up and go for booze," I say, "If he couldn't find any on the river."
"But then he'd come back?" Trey asks. ((My hat just blew off. I am walking in the rain in the dark.. It just missed a puddle).(I retrieve it and jam it on my head.)) Of course, Trey doesn't know Uncle Beast, he's never met him, and he's just barely met me.
"I don't think Uncle Beast would leave the river. He wants to ride the raft all the way down it, like Huckleberry Finn (?). It's been a dream of his ever since I can remember."
"Maybe he's hding o us. or on on you. He probably doesn't jnow about me."
"That's just what I was thinking," I said, "Exactly."
"Two can play at that game,"" Trey says, "or three. Why don't we hide on him?"
"Well, for one thing, if he did leave the river to get drunk, we won't be able to stop him. 1want to keep him from drinking. He's all depressed about stuff that happened in Iraq, and the doctor says ((Dammit, there goes my hat again))) that if he drinks again, it could possibly kill him."
"We didn't see the raft coming down. We could go look for it, but we might pass him again, and going upriver will be harder. If he's got a mind to drink, I don't see how you're going to stop him."
"I know. I've been thinking about that, believe me. I feel as if this whole sheme of mine is totally harebrained. I feel like a dunce. I'm embarassaed to admit it, but I didn't think it would be that hard. I thought that if I went with him and stayed with him, he wouldn't drink. My parents forbid me from going. hey said Uncle Beast (only they called him your uncle David(?)) had a dangerous addiction and it wasn't something to trifle with. I really thought I could help. Maybe I should just go home."
"Let's hide on him and see if he comes. If he does come, we'll see how he is, and then decide. If he doesn't come, we'll go back to my house and my parents can help you get home."
We find a super spot to hide. Two trees lean into the water in graceful arching curves, down nearly to the river's surface, and then up again. We've backed in between them and the branches hide us from view.
Trey goes ashore. He's going to pee and then see if he can find something edible. I admitted I hadn't eaten and was hungry. But I hope he hurries. What if Beast comes by while he's farting around?
I am getting dozy. My head keeps dropping. I can't afford to sleep. Beast could slip by.
Ah, here comes a resue party, a gang of mosquitoes whining in around me in a cloud from inside the brances and leaves. That will wake me up. But where is Trey?
Oh, snap! There's Beast and Killer. They are poling along under the trees across the river, which is wider here thn it has been. I look fantically around for Trey, and then here a thump. The canoe jerks upward on my end as it sinks downward on his, like a teeter-totter. I almost fall out as a flail to catch my balance, swinging my arms and accidentally dopping the paddle that was resing across my lap. It slips into the water and away under the trees twoard shore.
I'm thinking, "Oh shit, I've lost one of Trey's paddles and Beast is getting away."
The trees are too low to paddle under, but Trey is good. We slide out from our spot, clearing the low trees by about a foot, and slide back in on the other side, close enough to maybe grab the paddle. I almost fall in headifirst reaching for it, but Trey gives an extra tiny push and I snag it.
Our attention is focussed on the paddle, and when we back out again, Beast, Killer and raft have vanished. I stare at the spot where I'd last seen them, but nothing movesother than the ripples in the river and the leaves on the trees. The treetops sway slightly, leaving east in the small breeze.
I can't imagine that Beast would go back upstream/upriver, unless he spotted us. I can see under the trees for quite some distance, porbably farther than Beast could have traveled at the rate he was going.
It occurs to me that there might possibly be an unseen hiding place along there somewhere, like the ones Beast and I tied up in several times before. We always looked for places to hide so that we wouldn't be troubled by thieves or other scoundrels, as Pa would say.
I explain my theory to Trey and he agrees immediately, and we paddle upriver at our edge, where the current is the weakest and we're party sheltered by overhanging trees, in case Beast can see out from where he is. When we're up high enough to cut across and end up above where we spoted him, we paddle hard for the other shore. The current takes us down, and paddle as we might, we still end up below where we wanted to be.
Now it it occurs to me that I should have attempted a disguise, so Beast would recognize me. Too bad I didn't think of that sooner.
I had marked a tree in my mind as the last spot we saw Beast, and we'd only been looking away a brief time, getting the paddle. He could not have gotten too far on the raft, which is not a speedy craft to say the least.
The tree I'd marked in y mind was a box elder with a lot of whitish blue sucker shoots, and tabled in the sucker shoots was a blue plastic bag, probably windborn, and below that, a yellow plastic bag, probablyw aterborn from the river was high after a rain.
There were several other box elders with bags in them, and at first, I thought I might have misremembered, but finally I spot the right one, and Trey agrees. We're whispering, in case Beast is nearby. We can't believe how far we drifted downriver in spite our hard paddling.
As we're approaching the tree with the blue and yellow bags, Trey points. I follow his gaze and spot i inlet, screen by low-hanging leaves. It looks too narrow for the raft, but it is just the kind of spot Beast liked to camp at night.
Only it's not night, so if he's in there, he could be armed and dangerous. When whisper this to Trey, he looks worried.
"Does he have a gun?" he asks. Beast is a soldier, back from Iraq. He knows how to shoot. But I don't think he has a gu. What if I'm wrong?
"I meant, armed with beer or something worse. That makes him turn into a monster, into a beast. We have to be careful. He probably won't hurt us, but if we suprsie him, startle him . . ." I trail off, suddenly worried about Trey and his safety. I may have done a stupid thing, allowing him to come. This whole venture, right from the beginning, is probably ill-advised, as Pa would say.
Still, here we are, so we paddle though the narrow opening, ducking under the leaves, and there's the raft, just like that. No sign of Beast, but know where he is. He's the tent, with the booze. And Killer.
I make a very tiny shitle, like the sound of a wood thrush deep in the forest, and then a little quiet down-spiraling song of the veery. The tent bounces, the whole rafts shifts from side to side, and there is the sound of frantic barking and yelping.
"Tiny?" I hear Beast's sleepy voice, and I'm afarid we're too late.
I spot a case of Bud, just outside the door. Beast isn't usually fond of Budweiser. He calls it swill and prefers something darker, like Black and tan. he hates wheat beer. I don't like any kind of beer, but if I had to drink it for some reason, I'd choose wheat beer.
"t's me, Beast, me and Trey."
"Who's Trey?"
"He's the guy who's canoe I stole after you abandoned me, Beast! That wasn't nice of you."
"You were being a painn, Tiny, watching my every move like a hawk."
"But, Beast, I was trying to take care of you. The doctor said . . ."
"I know what the doctor said, he said I could die. Fuck the doctor, Fuck Death, Fuck the army. Why do I want to live, anyway, after what happened to Sadhi and Carl and fred and Angelina? And everyone?"
I've had snippets of the story, but most of those people were in the army with Beast and were blown by land mines. Safhi was a little girl whose parents had been killed and Beast was taking care of her in the parent's hut. It was near the base, and he slipped food to her and stuff and apparently, someone killed her because she was friends with army guy. A little girl. He says they did bad things to her and wouldn't tell me what, so of course, I probably know what and makes me sick. I don't like to think about it. I'd be upset if I were Beast, I am upset, but I don't want him to die too.
"If you die, Beast, you're depriving me and Pa and Ma of someone we love, and depriving yourslef of your future, and you're letting the 911 terrorists win. Is that what you want?"
"Go away, Tiny. Leave me alone."
Trey had been silently paddling the canoe close to the raft. I stepped out of the canoe onto the raft and was startled to see that the case of Bud had not been opened. Did he have something else in the tent?
I picked the case and staggered to the canoe and handed it to Trey, pointing out toward the river. He understood, and back-paddled.
Meanwhile tent was bouncing around like Crazy. Killer was trying to get to me.
I'm coming in, I said, and unzipped the tend. I was immediately knocked flat on my back by Killer, who was licking my face with gallons of dog slobber.
* * * * end Chapter
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