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Sleep and the Ravell’d Sleeve

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care. We all remember those famous words of Macbeth, and yet it seems to be an increasingly rare commodity in our hurried world –not the care mind you, the sleep -sore labor’s bath. Only the extremes of life seem to avail themselves of it to any meaningful extent. And given that I belong to one of those extremes, perhaps that is why I keep writing about it. Sleep is something I’ve always enjoyed, although when I was younger, it seemed to be doled out in little packages, like party favours at a birthday. And yet, even those little gifts were precious desserts in a time of milk and pablum. But now that my way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf –if I may be allowed to jump to the other end of the Macbeth play- it’s like living in a candy store and I am sick at heart. Wisdom may come with age, but its shadow, weariness, always follows close behind. I sleep too much. And, like sports or playing the oboe, sleep gets easier with practice.

But I’m getting old and things I don’t even remember buying are wearing out. I accept that –they’re supposed to; it’s what drives our economy and keeps the younger people in jobs so they can support us. That, too, makes sense. Now that I am of an age that facilitates reflection, I have time to mull over the things I have experienced, and decide whether or not to complain about them. And what wisdom I have acquired over the years, is probably because I have learned to scavenge what others have discarded: I have harvested an herb that is only able to grow on compost; I have, in other words, learned to rationalize. But it doesn’t always work. So I have also harvested sleep. I am condemned to sleep. Aye, there’s the rub if I can switch plays again for a moment.

But I have to be honest; I fear becoming what everybody expects of an older person: a nappy. Not the kind that requires constant changing, you understand, although I suppose I should add that to my list of fears -no, I mean the kind that naps: nods off unexpectedly in the middle of a conversation even if it’s interesting. Not only is it rude, but you miss a lot. And yet, perhaps the issue is a more existential one: what benefit does all this extra unconsciousness confer on elders? Is it simply a function of wear and tear on the neural circuits –a kind of frayed wire in there that short-circuits every once in a while? Or is it some sort of evolutionary adaptation to all the extra time that has to be killed now that we’re not working?

I have to confess that the more I think about it, the more I wonder if the conspiracy theorists are on to something though. Does stuff go on while we’re napping that we’re not supposed to know about? Is that when somebody comes around and rumples our shirts, or puts stains on our pants to make us look even worse that we thought we did? And if we just pretend to sleep and then catch them at it, will they still put us in the Home?

Anyway, how do I know it’s the same world I wake up to? There often seem to be subtle changes that are only noticeable after a brief absence; it’s time-lapse stuff that isn’t obvious on a cursory analysis. These are usually fobbed off, I know, but should they be? I don’t mean to be unduly solipsistic here, but you have to wonder, don’t you?

In the interests of a more objective approach to the problem, however, and to stave off the curses, not loud but deep, I would like to submit a question that has troubled me about my elderly skill of dropping off.

The question may seem overly trite, but how do I know I’m going to wake up again? Not that this concern causes me any sleepless naps or anything, because if I don’t, I probably won’t notice. No, I suppose the real question is not the if, it’s the when.

 My memory isn’t what it used to be –well, actually, I don’t really remember how it used to be- so I can only rely on Descartes’ argument that there is a me inside all that forgetfulness that is constant. Deceivable no doubt, but still something to be deceived… Anyway, if Descartes is correct, doesn’t that make my me the only thing I can rely on to interpret the input?

And if that is the case, then the nap becomes not only understandable but essential for the maintenance of the world I’ve lived in. Well, at least my waking up is- because it allows the continuation of all we (aka me) have known. And since you are what I have known, we are reciprocally dependent… Coeval.

Okay, I’ll be upfront with you; I think I snuff you all out when I nap. So lay off the stains, eh?

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