{"id":160622,"date":"2022-07-12T13:30:57","date_gmt":"2022-07-12T17:30:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=160622"},"modified":"2022-07-13T10:26:13","modified_gmt":"2022-07-13T14:26:13","slug":"bona-nit-estimat-an-ordinary-night","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/07\/12\/bona-nit-estimat-an-ordinary-night\/","title":{"rendered":"Bona Nit, Estimat<\/em> (An Ordinary Night)"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Illustration by Na Kim.<\/p><\/div>\n

I can\u2019t fall asleep till my skin\u2014sweaty, sticky, sizzling with bacteria, random fungal itches, swellings, vague histamine eruptions\u2014has been unified by a bath or shower. I wear a white cotton T-shirt softened by age to tame this commotion and to guard my insanely sensitive nipples against the onslaught of, say, the blanket\u2019s edge.<\/p>\n

Mr. X. and I read for a while. I\u2019m reading Derek McCormack\u2019s wondrous Castle Faggot<\/em>, but after a few paragraphs the words stop making sense. I whisper, \u201cBona nit, estimat.\u201d<\/em> Xavi whispers, \u201cBona nit, malparits<\/em>,\u201d and we kiss. Why do we whisper? Sometimes we whisper \u201cI love you.\u201d I roll onto my right side, and incredibly Xavi slides closer and drapes an arm over me. Ceding bed territory sets off a small alarm. \u201cSweet dreams, honey,\u201d he might add, amused to be using the English endearment. Thirty seconds later he snores softly in my ear and a toenail digs into my calf. I am on the edge, he gathers the quilt in such a way that I am half-exposed and if I want more space or more covers there will be a struggle. I find this adorable. Everything explains why we should be together in this bed.<\/p>\n

I often think about the dead before sleep\u2014saying goodnight to them? Not think about\u2014more like have the feeling of them. Are they my default setting? Is default consciousness what happens before sleep? My mother and I disliked talking on the phone so we spent most of our weekly calls saying goodbye, but now I mentally pick up the phone to say hello, a gesture. I think of Kathy Acker with a pang of love, a welter of unfinished business. When Xavi holds me, he contains these feelings. Tonight it\u2019s simple\u2014I wish Kathy were alive to be held like this.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

I move Xavi\u2019s hand from my waist to my hip, free the scrotum skin caught between my legs, and crack my right foot. When I yawn, sleep is near. But I rise onto my elbow to write these notes, or other notes, in my black notebook, by the cell phone light. Xavi sleeps\u2014my efforts don\u2019t disturb him. It has taken most of my life to learn to withdraw into myself, to sleep with a lover\u2019s arm around me. It\u2019s a level of trust, I suppose. The ability to trust.<\/p>\n

Going to sleep is so general. Am I most like others or most like myself? I kick the covers off, I run hot, that\u2019s okay. Xavi pulls the covers to him. I photo-documented this at four in the morning one night, every scrap of blanket gathered around him like a cocoon. J\u2019accuse!<\/em> He goes to sleep so quickly and stays asleep, I suppose. What a wonderful mammal! Sleep is complicated for me. I fall asleep, but staying asleep is a question, because melatonin levels decline with age.<\/p>\n

I wake after four or five hours. My heavy body hurts more in the middle of the night than in the morning\u2014why? The taut feeling in my side\u2014liver disease? Pancreatic cancer? Gallstones? Why do my feet buzz? Why does the horizontal hurt my knee? Bruce Boone and I decided we dislike the terms old<\/em> and older<\/em> to describe ourselves. We prefer entropic<\/em>, thus observing a majestic cosmic law. My disintegration enthralls me. I am the pain in my back, stiff, achy. I hope I\u2019m finished when I die, like Great-Aunt Olga. How clumsy I was on the ladder and on our pitched roof when Xavi and I collected the leaves from the massive California pepper next door. Like a toddler. At some point, climbing a ladder onto my roof will be a bad idea. Goodbye, roof! Goodbye, view! I mentally avert my eyes.<\/p>\n

Olga had an elegant death. She was ninety-five, I believe. She phoned my mother. \u201cDorothy, I\u2019m calling to say goodbye. I finished what I was put on earth to do and I am not having fun anymore.\u201d She got in bed and turned her face to the wall. A few days later she slipped into a coma, a few more and she was gone. To Olga\u2019s credit, she used the word fun<\/em>. Fun fun fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

My night is divided by a subtle chronology, first sleep and second sleep. I sit for a moment, groggy, then stand for a moment to assess the situation\u2014back, knees, hands. Entropic bodies move tentatively, trying to avoid a shock. It\u2019s not that every movement hurts, but which movement and how much? My bladder sends a message of necessity. I step into the cold air of the kitchen, it\u2019s 4:22. A swallow of water sweetens my mouth. Pure water from the High Sierras, though now augmented by San Francisco groundwater\u2014worried thought. I take half a trazodone with a second sip. I shuffle to the toilet for a long pee, eyes closed. I aim by sound, a gentle treble. Sometimes it\u2019s a short piss even though the urgency is the same. Do I wake up and sense my bladder, or does it wake me?<\/p>\n

During \u201chuman history,\u201d people in most of the world experienced periods of biphasic sleep. After a few hours of slumber, we prayed, read, worked, whittled, stared at the stars, fucked, visited one another, busied ourselves in myriad ways. In some accounts, we used the time to meditate on our dreams. Percy Bysshe Shelley: \u201cI arise from dreams of thee \/ In the first sweet sleep of night.\u201d<\/p>\n

I do what I am advised not to do. The bright screen displays what\u2019s new in the world and in my life. It\u2019s like returning home wanting to feel that something happened, something is different. I check email and read the NYT<\/em> and go other \u201cplaces.\u201d Sitting at the dining-room table, I try to maintain my posture. If I sink into my body like Humpty Dumpty my back freezes and movement is painful. I twist in the chair, loosening my torso. Stony-eyed, I hunt for images: an auction of modernist carpets, a site where men purvey their nakedness, mid-century decorative art, ceramic objects by Gertrud Vasegaard, Gutte Eriksen, and Edward Eberle. Caucasian rugs. Iznik tiles. According to Temple Grandin, predators feel elated when they hunt\u2014or shop? I turn on the heater and there\u2019s that hiss and smell of burning dust. I might tinker with a few sentences, like this one. Hissing, clicking.<\/p>\n

I go back to bed: left side, right side? I like a cool room. The heat comes from our bodies. I rest on the edge of hot and cold, feel both at once. I lie in the dark, eyes closed yet watching for sleep, though of course I don\u2019t see it. It\u2019s not like entering a dark room or a dark box\u2014I am already there. It\u2019s more like an encounter along the way. Xavi moves closer in his sleep. That is a beautiful instinct, is it not? Sometimes he puts his hand on my butt. I can\u2019t believe my luck. Another dead friend arrives, Kathleen Fraser.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Kathleen Fraser at B. Patisserie, San Francisco. May 11, 2018. Photograph by Robert Gl\u00fcck.<\/p><\/div>\n

At the amazing B. Patisserie, where I liked to take her, she once played with my hat, mugging, and I took her picture with my cell phone to show her how well it suited her. She considered my life with Xavi and pronounced, \u201cGood! I\u2019m glad you have this experience!\u201d Kathleen was like that\u2014she took stock and put it into words. Decades earlier, about a different relationship, she\u2019d warned, \u201cBob, he\u2019s a cloud. You push, he\u2019ll disappear.\u201d I suppose she was glad that I\u2019d found the kind of love she shared with her husband, Art. Love that is\u2014what?\u2014fulfilled. This was our last meeting out in the world. Our next visits took place at her bedside. This photo is a reminder of our lunch and of Kathleen\u2019s bright eyes.<\/p>\n

I wake a few hours later with this dream: I seem to have options\u2014I choose to turn into a grouty cement wall. My gray cratered face looks like M\u00e9li\u00e8s\u2019s man in the moon as I dissolve into thick mortar on the top row of cinder blocks. I\u2019m round as Humpty Dumpty\u2014is this comedy? Instead of turning my face to<\/em> the wall, I\u2019m turning my face into<\/em> a wall. Am I the wall Humpty falls from? The wall Olga turns to?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Robert Gl\u00fcck is the author of nine books of poetry and prose, including the novel\u00a0<\/em>Margery Kempe\u00a0and the long poem\u00a0<\/em>I, Boombox, forthcoming from Roof Books in spring 2023. Read “About Ed<\/a>” in our Summer\u00a0issue.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cGoing to sleep is so general. Am I most like others or most like myself?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2263,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[2833,14021,6589,93,12869],"class_list":["post-160622","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-chronology","tag-insomnia","tag-percy-bysshe-shelley","tag-san-francisco","tag-sleep"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nBona Nit, Estimat (An Ordinary Night) by Robert Gl\u00fcck<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"July 12, 2022 \u2013 \u201cGoing to sleep is so general. 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