Archive for June, 2010

An Accompanying Portrait

Based upon the records of wife, I believe that I have accurately reconstructed the imagery from dream I had during the previous evening.

A dangerous, magical combination: the wand and newspaper (+10 damage points)

Rhetoric During the Third Watch

As any member of my family, my brother especially, will quickly attest, I have a penchant for conversing in my sleep. Wife has likewise experienced the phenomenon, as in the case where I simply shouted, “Pope!” and rolled over. More often than not, though, wife sleeps through such announcements or simply forgets the contents of the parentheses. Last night was another exception to the norm. Wife awoke as words involuntarily passed over my lips and managed to quickly scrawl them down for recounting this morning. I have no recollection of a dream that fits with these phrases, so I must assume that my mouth and mind operate independently of each other during the nocturnal stasis period:

“Circles!… Magic!… Wizards!… Turning newspapers!… I took it, rolled it up , and beat it up with my newspapers!”

Ok, watch your back Fryman…

So, after wife and I disappeared to Tenerife for a few days, I returned to the postgraduate office at the university only to discover a disturbance in the force… something was missing… Ah, yes. My computer and all of the various sundries and wares, including several books for my research were nowhere to be found. I turned to a colleague, one Matthew Rodney Malcolm and asked, “Sir, where might I find my chattels?” Unable (and unwilling) to comprehend my request we played a game of Hot-and-Cold until I located my possessions in a newly assigned office:

The joke's on them. I call this convenient.

Transatlantic Abeyance of Sloom

Over a month has transpired since my previous entry along with a great deal of happenings: most primetime U.S. television seasons have drawn to a conclusion, I took several showers, it rained in England, I stepped on a snail in Greece, and I finally read The Catcher in the Rye (still perplexed about the hype surrounding this work- mostly boring). Though most of the month passed in such generalities, two substantively related events separated by only a few weeks continue to sidle into my thoughts at random moments throughout the day. One might contend that the occasions and frequency with which these thoughts occupy my cerebral realm is due to little more than the random firing of synapses. I would contend that that is a stupid response and that you have no idea how synapses work. Regardless, let me recount for you these events, which involve sleep (there’s your substantive) and international locations (true to the origin of these entries).

Location: Puerto de la Cruz, Tenerife, Spain

Date: I can’t remember around 4 a.m.

After an invigorating day of ambling through Puerto de la Cruz, relaxing on beaches, and consuming German(?) delicacies, wife and I found ourselves back in the hotel room ready for a rejuvenating slumber.  Though I have had some sleeping issues in recent months, I found that rest came to meet relatively easily on this evening. At some ungodly hour, however, I ascended rapidly through all levels of sleep and wrenched my eyes open. It was impossible for me to have been wider awake at any time in my life than at that moment. Realizing that several hours yet lay before the rising of the sun and that I was not Amish, I inaudibly insisted that I return to sleep. The open door of our porch let in a cool ocean breeze, so I attempted to pull my covers over the right side of my body, which had become exposed as the night transpired. I choose the word “attempted” because that most accurately describes the situation. Following the two to three seconds that lapsed between my sleeping and hoping for sheet-coverage, I realized that my right arm was trapped under my body and throbbing in pain. I know, “Your arm just fell asleep, Andrew”; but I had apparently restricted all blood flow from my arm from the moment I lay on the bed. It felt like two people had been given respective tasks in handling my arm: one to vigorously massage it with fiberglass insulation, and the other to quickly inflate and deflate it from the shoulder down. Rolling off of it brought no comfort either, as the blood surged back into the tortuous network of veins and blood vessels. I thought to myself, “If you can just get the covers back over your right shoulder, maybe you will get back to sleep.”

Do you remember your biological science lessons from elementary school where you learned about voluntary and involuntary actions? The former case involves the application of the will, whereas the latter case requires no conscious decision. You never have to say to yourself, “Blink… blink…” or, “right leg lift, bend at the knee, and commence forward locomotion.” As I lay in bed that night, I struggled desperately and futilely to even grab the sheet with my right hand, let alone cloak my body in it. My thumb and forefinger refused to grasp, so I just rolled around violently, hoping that my savage heaving would land a sheet corner in my hand. I managed to drop an edge into my lifeless hand, but nothing happened. I sought with all my will to move that sheet- even throwing my body forward in the hope that I could fling my arm and the sheet over my torso- and it was in the midst of that desperation that I heard it… my brain speaking independent of me to my arm. It came during a particularly intense effort to force my arm into moving. Every muscle in my body (excluding the right arm) participated in a joint, upward-pushing exertion when I heard, “Move the sheet over your shoulder.”  He sounded very calm and matter-of-fact about it all. Meanwhile, I had been thinking (apparently with another wrinkle of my brain) how terrible it would be if the debilitation was permanent. I was not sure if my mind addressed my arm in the second person singular as independent from me or as part of the whole (I hadn’t the capacity to be offended if it was the first case). Either way, I halted my effort and lay there in shock at having heard the involuntary communication of my gray matter.

Location: Thessaloniki, Greece

Date: May 7-8, various times

Likewise, after a similar day of trekking, though in a decidedly different country on the Mediterranean Sea, I found myself retiring in a hotel room with a traveling companion. We had come for research relating to my topic on 2 Thessalonians and had slept precious little the night before on either the four-hour bus ride to the airport or the four-hour flight to Thessaloniki. We had come as a trio, but because of overbooking, they had to place us in two rooms: one with a single bed and another with a single and a double. Matt and I took the shared room and I graciously offered him the double bed. I rarely use pajamas, so I stripped down to my boxer shorts (this is all important, folks) and read a bit before retiring to sleep. Matt, on the other hand, climbed into bed, laid down on his back, uttered a few unintelligible words, and drifted off.

Meanwhile, I continued reading my Bible (I am rather pious), but only pressed through 24 verses before a low rumble issued from Matthew’s side of the room. This quickly progressed from a level of soft sonorousness to a series of rhythmic and cacophonic eruptions that punctuated the relative silence of our room. I simply stared at my Australian roommate as he snored with such violence you would have thought his body was attempting to make up for any breaths he may have missed during the day. I contemplated striking him in the gut, but noticed his camera sitting on the shelf of the bedside table between us. Quickly, I snatched it from its resting place, set it to video, and turned it on. Everything was working swimmingly- he would get home, flip through the photos on his memory card, and hear how disgustingly loud of a snorer he was- but when I removed the lens cap and pressed on the button to focus, it made that typical Canon chirp (deetdeet), and Matt’s eyes shot open.

This is an awkward position in which to find oneself. You know a person relatively well, but have never had a slumber party with them before. Then, they awake in the middle of the night to find you holding a camera pointed in their direction. Matt pulled his covers up snuggly under his chin and asked, “What are you doing?” I tried to produce a response that sounded reasonable so I could still catch him snoring and at the same time did not sound like I was some sort of pervert who took pictures of the innocent as they sleep. I fumbled for words and said, “Nothing” a few times. I almost said, “Just go back to sleep,” but that was pervert-talk. After repeating the question enough and realizing my avoidance of the answer only made matters worse, I finally confessed my great plan. Crestfallen, I turned off the camera and returned it to the shelf. Matt continued to watch me from the corner of his eyes for a few minutes, then wrapped his covers tightly around himself and edged away from me. I finished my chapter and shut off my lamp.

They eventually upgraded us to a three-bed room, but Matt adopted a new, Indian-style sleeping position.

I woke early the next morning feeling quite groggy and more tired than when I had gone to bed. As I sat on the edge of my bed and began to rise from the haze of waking I noticed that I was wearing an undershirt. In itself, that is not so strange. But, because I had stripped down to my boxers the evening before, as you will recall, it was peculiar, to say the least. Knowing that I have a familial history of sleepwalking and talking, as my brother will happily testify, this seemed like a rude reminder of a past that I thought I had escaped. Then another explanation manifested suddenly in my mind. As Matt roamed around the room I thought, “What if he is the pervert who likes to dress up his roommates in their sleep?” I would not have minded so much if he had dressed me in a clean shirt. I eyed him suspiciously (though he would not have noticed because of my trademark pirate-eye morning face) and the longer I squinted, the more the latter option made sense. As a seasoned sleepwalker, I NEVER go for the easy option- a dirty shirt on the floor? Heck no! I will acquire a clean one from the closet. Who was the victor in this battle of odd nocturnal behavior? All I know is that Matt and I have reached a level of mistrust and suspicion that should characterize all good friendships.