It's as if my body is attempting to return to being nocturnal after several years away.
I used to stay up late by choice. Years later, I would religiously wake up late and work all night, monastically. Now, my body is trying to get back to the other side of the evening. I am crawling in counter-clockwise circles towards the dark.
I fell asleep around 8pm last night, awoke around 2am. I just keep going to bed earlier and earlier. I am pulled forward in time by something I can not see. Soon enough I will be asking to leave work early. My afternoon naps will stretch into the evening's hours.
I've been lying in bed pretending that I am normal for a few hours now. The bed is both the best and the worst place for such a thing: pretending to be normal. It seems easily plausible, so easily lost.
If you want insight into the dual nature of the bed, as a space, just watch the morning care that women put into setting it apart as a special space within the home, then await the evening's arrival. It is a fun game to play, that sport. It invites a thing that seems to resist the thing.
Defiling the bed is a strong metaphor, one that many seem capable and willing to abandon themselves to. I don't mean that type of defiling. I mean tarnishing the sheets with physicality, bringing them to sudden ruin, giving oneself over with another to the chaos of impulse, the anarchy of desire.
Naughty or not, here I come…
Women…. A friend is struggling lately with the concept and the fact. I have given him my best advice - expert in the area that I am - but he will not listen. I know this.
Wait, now that I think about it… I may have given him very contradictory advice. Oh well, that's fine. A man's mind is dynamic and in tune with the swirling stars and inconstant moon, privy to unseen forces. A man should always be free to change his wishes at whim or will. It is part of what makes a man delicate and special, magical even - like a princess without the ss. He should always be encouraged to follow his intuitions, wherever they may lead him, even if into the arms of another. It wasn't or was meant to be... The great mystery of manhood is their abiding capacity to love, increased in appetite and duration by choice and leisure.
A man's art is his being, his unending giving of himself to another.
Abandon, abandon, abandon… who enter here.