What the...?
Wherein Our
Heroine Can't for the Life of Her Recall What it Was.
I need to start keeping a pad and pen by
my bed. I had an idea last night for today's essay, and it is now completely
(and probably irretrievably) gone. I hate it when that
happens.
Those ideas - the
ones you think of fleetingly, charge yourself with remembering, and then
promptly forget - those always seem to be the best ones. As you can't remember
them, you are free to believe they must have been works of pure genius, perfect
in every crystalline detail. The reality is probably far different. I may have
had a mildly clever idea, even something that might be a bit thought-provoking.
Or it may have been pure rubbish. But my anxious waking brain seems to be
convinced that I am leaving my best stuff on the nocturnal cutting room floor.
We will never know, as I did not note anything down and now have no clue what I
was thinking about.
The
problem is, even if I station the pad and pen and charge them with recording my
near-sleep notions, I'm pretty sure they would gather more dust than ideas. If
I'm near sleep, I'm going to drop off, barring any sudden loud noises (and even
they won't usually wake me up - I frequently sleep through thunderstorms). If I
get an idea in that milky place between waking and sleeping, it's highly likely
to stay in that ether. There's very little chance I will summon up whatever it
takes to rouse myself, turn on the light and jot down a note. My husband is
probably thankful for this, as he is a very light sleeper (except when he has
rolled over onto the duvet, rendering it unusable by anyone but himself. Then
nothing short of a trumpet blast is going to wake him as his wife shivers and
tugs at the edges of the human burrito in a vain and pathetic attempt to reclaim
her portion of duvet real estate).
So - instead of whatever
marvelous work of genius my semi-conscious brain may or may not have spat up
last night, you get this, Dear Reader. Sorry.
Posted: Thursday - May 27, 2004 at 08:31 AM
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