Curtains for Sleep

A character study on a life slowly unraveling, driven by the horrors of the mundane of the everyday.

They never tell you about it, do they? How your brain can be your best friend and dig you out of a hole. And be the absolute bête noire of your life. Firing at the worst possible times. Cropping up with dark thoughts when you need to rest and recover. You don’t really know what I mean? Okay, I’ll give you an exemplar. Actually, maybe an example. I don’t want to over sell.

It’s rare I sleep through the nights these days. At first, that was one day a week, you know. Sometimes two. But lately it’s probably one where I get a decent night’s rest. Frequently due to utter exhaustion.

I am a writer or I certainly claim to be. I spend my days sat in the library for the first half of the day. (Being surrounded by books always used to inspire me.) Then lunch time I or just before to beat the 12 o’clock cut off, I head to Wetherspoons for a small beans on toast and unlimited coffees to continue working. Less than a fiver a day. It’s a good system, eh? Oh, why is this relevant? Yeah okay, I’m getting to that. You see the words used to come. So, so easily. But lately, they don’t…

I sit for hours, staring at a blank screen. Or fiddling round the edges of old stories. Or faffing, as my nan would have called it. She used to call people who were indecisive a daft apeth. I looked up what it meant once as it was so foreign to someone of my age. Apparently, a daft halfpennyworth under the old pre-decimal currency system. Yes, I know you don’t care. But there’s nothing wrong with knowledge for knowledge’s sake.

So anyway, that’s my days. The nights now—as I think I said—I don’t sleep. Well, that’s not true. I sleep, usually very early. Because I’m so worn out. Totally knackered. Which my mum used to consider a swear word. Odd, eh? Then, whatever time I wake up, that’s it. Midnight, fight or flight. One and done. I’m up and that’s it.

 

At first, I’d try to work. And I’d do a bit. Or I’d read. Some great stuff too. A Visit from The Goon Squad by Egan. Modern epistolary. That was great. And 1982 Janine by Grey. Very dark, but you can see how he influenced Trainspotting. No, I’m not showing off. I like reading, pal. Anyway, lately I have no mind to read. So, I’ve taken to watching every WrestleMania in order. I can’t stand the modern stuff, but the classics. From 1985 onwards. I really think WrestleMania 5 is probably the best. I thought the Macho Man was just an idiot as a kid. But he was such a great technical wrestler and a bit magnetic. Sometimes the thought even crosses my mind that I should be a bit more like him.

I walk around a bit. You’d probably say pacing. Yeah, pacing. Back and forth. It doesn’t take very long. I’m tall (at least for my generation) and I live in a studio. I own it, to be fair. And it’s nice enough. When we ended, I used my half of the money to buy this place. It’s nice. Self-contained. I used to joke it was like a nest, because it was so small and cosy. But I never saw one bird alone in a nest. So lately, I’ve started to dislike that metaphor. No, not because it is sad. Because it isn’t apt. A writer should always strive for accuracy. For authenticity.

I see my clothes drying on the rack there. A clean Forest shirt, a pair of shorts, three pairs of socks and my boxers. I do my washing once a week on Saturday morning, without fail. I keep myself clean, see? I think appearances are important. Healthy body, healthy mind or whatever it is they say. I also see my good grey blazer and a black pair of chinos, plus a steamed white shirt hanging from the old curtain rail I converted into an open wardrobe rail. I’m pretty innovative, see? I steam, not iron. That’s the secret for saving time and effort. I only usually wear those to see my agent or meet my daughter. I haven’t needed them much lately and besides, the Forest shirts dry in ten minutes. So convenient!

There’s a photo on the table next to my bed. I usually avoid looking at it for long. Sometimes I turn it to face the wall. But that somehow reminds me more. I prefer to look forward than back. But your brain isn’t something you can switch off. Unless you go down the same route as the man in Janine 1982. I’ve definitely thought about it, but more from the angle of writing about it, you know? It’s not something that’s a real option for me. Or at least not in my mind when it’s clear, rational.

It’s hard to focus. It’s hard to write anything substantive, surrounded by darkness. Sometimes I turn on my small desk lamp. Sometimes like I said, I watch the wrestling. These days everything is romantasy or what I’d call weird crap. I can’t write the former. Just not my style, not my audience. It’s also so cliched. So generic. I want to write something real. Something true. Something authentic. But maybe I can’t. Maybe I don’t have it anymore. Maybe I never did. But I am guilty of a bit of Oliver Cromwell here, the old self-flagellation.

I think social media has rotted out our society. Our ability to focus, produce beauty. Appreciate it. I hate that TikTok. Fifteen second videos for morons. Braying laughs at a cat climbing a curtain. Especially when they watch them without headphones. Makes me want to say something. Maybe want to punch them. But I never do. I never do.

I read last year’s Booker prize, Flesh by Robert Szalay. Stripped back narrative, easy to read, well thought out character study. Then with probably only twenty pages left. I put it down. Looked at it, picked it up. Looked at it again. Then took it outside and burned it. Not sure why I did that. Maybe somehow, I wasn’t enjoying it, you know? You expect more from a Booker prize winner. Or at least you should.

I tried teaching for a little while. I suppose it was sort of related to writing in a way. But I had no patience for the kids who didn’t work hard. And that was a lot of them. One kid always ran off and hid around parts of the school cos he was developmentally behind and couldn’t cope. I got in trouble for calling him Bruce Springsteen as he was Born to Run. Sometimes I think I’ve gotten a bit eccentric as I’ve got older. Maybe it was always there, who knows?

I’ve decided to treat myself to a pint tomorrow at Wetherspoons. You know they sell Bud Light for 1.99? That’s the kind of price I used to get there as a sixteen-year-old. Not now. Good deal if you ask me. For that price, I might even have two.

The sun’s starting to sneak in through those light blue curtains. I hate those curtains. They couldn’t keep out the light from a match head. I’ve been meaning to replace them. But money a bit tight without the work coming in, you know?

Maybe I’ll go out for a walk in a bit. There’s a paper shop round the corner. Although no one really buys papers anymore, do they? I used to love that as a kid. Especially flicking to the back page and reading all the football gossip. Remember saying Roberto Baggio was going to sign for Forest. If only. You’ll believe ought when you’re that age.

I used to go to book readings at the big Waterstones on the High Street whenever they had a famous other. This one time, there was this female author, won’t say who, reading her latest romance book. “And as she quivered on the bed, she experienced something she had never experienced before, a new experience that opened he mind to all of life’s delicious, verboten, unspoken possibilities.” So anyway, when they got to the questions, I asked if the main character was taking it up the arse. I haven’t been allowed back since, which I think is a bit harsh. It was a legitimate question.

If this was fiction, you’d see a great epiphany or a great moment of self-discovery where a hero rediscovers his muse. Well, I’d love that to happen. I’d just love to get some sleep. But here’s what actually happens. Life actually gurgles down a drain slowly, like water in a sink slowly running out of momentum until it’s sucked away. It’s far more likely that there’s where I end. Like real life. Like everyone else. Maybe this is just a week’s worth of no sleep talking. But maybe I’m not some kind of savant like genius. Maybe I’m not even Dan Brown or James Patterson. Yuck. Maybe I’m a Walter Mitte. Maybe I’m just like you. Just like everyone else. Now there’s even more sun coming in through the window. I hate those curtains.