Ahh, he thought, not a lot accomplished today. But Jake Gardenia’s late night talk show was over so his restive spirit could ebb, and sweet awaked-ness would soon subside into the sand where periwinkles, the pastel and the garish living porcelain tentacles of ongoing unconscious wisdom would burrow into the beach leaving the glazed surface freshly wet from the last wave to dry off during low tide.
Even the unfixed drippy faucet of unfinished business was almost inaudible. The chiropractic pillow wedged comfort to his creaking neck down his spine promising supine solace that comes after a mile or two that afternoon of trodding through the woods near the river. Ice stormed ground had melted and turned to mud. A slick and slippery coating re-moistened over fallen leaves that had been coated a month before when the Saluda River burped over her banks leaving a pluff mud veneer below the bluff on which his dreams, a cool modern miniature skyscraper of a cabin, would come spring, be couched after the interior space was paneled and he and his young son moved in.
Comforter wrapped for the midwinter snooze. A certain and predictable somnolence soon was sure to set in. With delight, he reviewed his drill for the morning routine – smart phone’s alarm feature programmed. It was settling to know that in case he did not rise perturbed with an irksome – yet fun to scratch itch – to jot down his notions into apple notebook – a crisp breakfast on many a morning – the synthesized beeper would rouse him.
OK, he promised that stumbled-upon idea from this morning – Thelma and Louise as allegory of the cliff diving dead-end our economy was headed for. Could be fleshed out upon morning light … right. The pillow felt so soft, yet supportive. Remembering that Thelma was the professional coming to the realization that Louise, the apt and abler, yet laid-off assembly line trouble shooter, would no longer be able to afford her services. Right… in the morning. The tedium of sorting out the differences, the dependencies, and the odd fatalistic confidences these women (a doctor and an auto worker) shared, was the last trifle of rebellion from sleep, yet feeding drowsiness through a desire to postpone and escape.
Proud that within the sound of the name of Thelma was a pre-reverberation that once coupled with the name of the saintly, yet so Zeno tinkerer, from almost antiquity positing pseudo syllogisms. That defender of the faith, Saint Anselm, Thelma Anselm? Nah, just Thelma.
Then the thought that flowing through him come morning sun might be clouded over from weariness should he fail to rest now:
Might as well, he thought. Seize the kernel of vexation brewing a boil-over of can’t sleep and even if the indigestion of impending disappointment (is that guilt?) due to laziness (ah, that is) did not foment fruition for his plot to parody our nations future in dialog, rather than his usual diatribe. Well, that was OK. Sleep would simply overtake him at his task if unsuccessful. For what is more boring than failure and what greater sedative than boredom?
Good night Thelma. Good night Louise.