November 27, 2003

12:07 a.m.

Well, the story about the bass player can wait. It doesn't seem so pertinent these days. We'll wait until we have a fire, and some cocoa and a blankie, eh? Meanwhile I've been trying to begin this entry and have been repeatedly distracted, so I'll just copy a sonnet I wrote a few years ago that I like. I went through a spate of sonnet-writing, for some reason, and this one is about a strange thing that sometimes happens to me just before I fall asleep. I can actually hear music, audibly, coming from inside my head. For some years it was just a plain tone, like a beautiful sustained harmonic, that would come and go in a sort of tidal rhythm. Eventually I realized I could manipulate the tone by thinking about it, so I could actually create slow melodies. If I thought about it too hard I'd wake myself up and it would instantly be gone. So I had to remain totally relaxed and emotionally detached, but attentive. Over time I've been able to do some very creative things with the sounds; sometimes there are two tones at once in harmony; sometimes it comes to me sounding like a violin. I never have it for long, because I fall asleep. I've talked to dream analysts and others about what this might be and nobody knows; and I've found no one else who has experienced it. Anyway, here are sixteen lines on the subject:

Sleep and I are strange bedfellows; true,
We�ve made, for decades, our Lethean crossing
(On rare occasion, I am prone to tossing
Until the ferry�s gone) as many do;
Hand in hand we�ve yielded up the night
To Morpheus� dark mirror; in its gleams
We parley in the lexicon of dreams
Whose wisdom cracks and shifts in morning light.
But there�s a place between the bank and deep,
A fragile state where I can sometimes hear
Tones of such aching sweetness and so clear --
�Are these the spheres in their majestic sweep,
Or -- oh! Some angel, bright celestial dancer,
Sleep?� I entreat. He offers up no answer.

4/6/00

Sweet dreams to you, and happy Thanksgiving.