Thursday, November 13, 2014

Sleep Tigers

The boy slept at my place last night. It was the first time he spent the entire night in his own bed here, coughing and wheezing through the night. I will be sick in a day or two, hacking and trembling in cascading echoes of his ailment. It is surprising how children can sleep through a coughing fit. I whisper his name but he is riding sleep tigers, capturing the pirates of the parasomnia. 

There is the familiar and welcome sound of rain hitting the leaves outside, it percolates through the trees and bushes, then to earth. I would like to take the day off from work and lie in bed and listen, reading and napping, letting time pass through me without need for measuring task or accomplishment.

A friend is in town, so I will go and meet her for dinner tonight. We will have much to catch up with in conversation. So much has changed since the last time she was here. Though I complain of lethargy and diminished inspiration to write here, in truth I am happier now than I was then. Perhaps that is all that has changed. Happiness does not translate well or for very long into interesting writing, and do not believe anyone who would tell you otherwise.

Don't take my word for it. Read a novel about the life of a happy human. There are not that many out there. The imaginary Amazon shelves are endless with self-help tomes but not so many novels. Some of them might be written well, a pleasant way to pass the time, but none will be considered great by the the consensus of time. Literature investigates struggle, and does not always need to concern itself with supposed solutions. The tragedy of life is sometimes simply laid bare, nothing more.

Comedy is a device used in defense of the void, and it should not be confused with happiness, nor its occasional result, laughter. 

This is not at all to say that a writer can not express a range of pleasant cheerfulness, only that books that attempt to project happiness as their central theme are generally dismal reads, insufferable in their prescriptions for living.

Ah well, that is not what I wished to write about. There will be some who disagree, recommending the latest Eckhart Tolle book, The New Joys of Nowness, or some such rubbish.

Ok, I should stop.

Just found out that Rhys is too sick to be at school and will have to come home for the day. Just might get my wish for a day listening to the sniffling rain.