I've always been a person who hates wasting time. Even sleep seems like a waste of time to me, though I know it's kind of essential for wellbeing. In the hours that my eyes are closed and mind is idle, I could accomplish so much shit--write poems and books, grade papers, read, practice music, or exercise. Yet, for some reason, my body tells me to shut down and recharge.
This penchant I have for overwork always catches up with me. I can go for days/weeks on about three or four hours of sleep a night. Then I crash big time. I lie down and sleep for ten or 12 hours, or I get really, really sick, walking around like I'm a refugee from Night of the Living Dead.
Sharon Olds writes about her sick son . . .
Blue Son
by: Sharon Olds
All day with my blue son,
sick again, the blue skin
under his eyes, blue tracing of his
veins over the bones of his chest
pronounced as the ribs of the dead, a gree
vein in his groin, blue-green as the
numbers on an arm. His eloquent face
grows thinner each hour, the germs use him
like a soap. Exhaustion strips him, and under each
layer of sweetness a deeper layer of
sweetness is bared. His white skin,
so fine it has no grain, goes blue-
grey, and the burning blue of his eye
dies down and goes out, it is the faded cobalt on the
side of a dead bird. He seems to
withdraw to a great distance, as if he is
gone and looking back at me
without regret, patient, like an old
man who has just dug his grave and
waits at the edge, in the evening light,
naked, blue with cold, in terrible
obedience.
As most of my faithful disciples know, I suffered for a few months recently with a major depressive episode. (That's what my therapist diagnosed me with.) All I wanted to do was sleep. Wasn't hungry. Couldn't concentrate. Short-tempered. Overwhelmed. The list is endless. On top of all that, I had motivation to complete only the barest of minimums. I wasn't wasting time. I was just hanging on, barely.
I'm thankfully coming out of that bluest of funks. I've got more energy now for sure, but I still can't just put my head down on my pillow and fall asleep. Instead, I write in my journal, read, fold clothes until I can barely keep my head up straight. Then I flop into bed and let sleep conquer my overstimulated brain.
I've always dreamed of having a twin brother, as if that would solve all my guilt when I sleep. Then I could rest while my twin brother continued on with my tasks. (That sounds more like a clone, doesn’t it?). I once taught a student who had an identical twin brother. When that student didn’t feel like coming to class, he’d send his brother instead. The twin would listen, take notes, participate in class discussion. (They’d obviously been doing this quite a while.). Eventually, I discovered their secret—I had them write something for me in-class, and their handwriting didn’t match.
I often wonder if having a double would actually make me less tired or more tired. Would I be tempted to work twice as hard to accomplish twice as much? Knowing the way my mind works, that would probably be the outcome. So, it would mean that I’d be twice as tired.
Saint Marty can’t win this battle. He wrote a poem about having a twin, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
On this date in 1732, George Washington was born. Head to the Metropolitan Museum website and study closely the painting titled Washington Crossing the Delaware. Zoom in on General Washington's face, the icy Delaware, the billowing American flag, then write a poem that describes the scene and/or shares historical facts about the December 26, 1776 attack on the Hessians near Trenton, New Jersey. If you do not have Internet access, use the portrait of Washing's face on the American dollar or quarter to inspire a poem about the ubiquity of Washington's face in American culture.
Crossing the Delaware
by: Martin Achatz
I always wanted a twin brother--
a person I didn't have to explain
myself to, who understood all
my cravings, desires--from Maria,
the cute girl who sat next to me
in third grade, her black hair
smelling like lemon, to Red
Sonja in her chainmail bikini,
cardinal mane, the Farrah
Fawcett of the Marvel crowd,
filling my dreams with hopes
of capture, ropes, manacles,
stocks, a complete surrender.
My twin would know all this
without me saying single word,
the way Washington in the painting
seems to know what awaits him
on the distant shore, eyes
aimed like canons, ready to fire
at anything blood-colored,
while the soldiers paddle and bale,
desperate, as if they're crossing
the River Styx , Charon
as their commander.
In the boat, my twin and I whisper
to each other, sibilant, breathless,
assaulted by wind and rain,
in a current choked with ice,
not knowing what’s hiding
in the darkness--a nest of Hessian
bayonets ready to carve us up
like a Christmas goose,
or a sexy barbarian with
a sword so sharp it could
split open the belly of sky
to deliver the infant sun
into the arms of morning,
her flashing metal breasts
blinding us, her willing prisoners.
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