Things Found Next to the Bed (Or Not)

“Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.” (Fran Lebowitz)

Yesterday, I made the mistake of looking around my own bedroom with the lights on. The following is only part of what I discovered there.

v A well worn copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. You have to really like a guy who writes about hiring prostitutes and makes it seem more romantic than most marriages. I seldom use bookmarks. I am one of those hated ‘page-folders’, and the bane of every librarian in history. For this reason, I have to be very careful when borrowing books and therefore I prefer to own. I also write in the margins and highlight when I feel like it. If you don’t like it, don’t lend me any books.

v An equally tattered volume of Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius. Considering the kinds of buffoons we have running (or ruining) the nation at present, it’s comforting to know that at some point in humanity’s chequered past, there was at least one leader with philosophical backbone and wisdom. His stoicism provides a good idea before bedtime. In lieu of sex or cash raining down from the ceiling, Meditations isn’t the worst thing to experience before passing out.

(I picked this edition up at a rummage sale many years ago. I already had a decent copy of Meditations, but this one was special. There is a hand-written inscription on the inside cover which reads, "To Robert, from Carolyn. I love you." I have never met said Robert or fair Carolyn, but I get the impression he was a lucky man loved by a hell of a woman. Little acts of love make me all mushy inside.)

v Several editions of Scientific American magazine. A little light reading before bedtime. The material this magazine is printed on is very glossy and reflects too much light back onto my eyes, so it is hard for me to read more than a few pages at a time. Sometimes the subject matter requires me to check reference materials, and I’m not getting out of bed to chase down a physics textbook or encyclopaedia.

v A stack of essays, speeches, and articles I wrote or printed from somewhere off the internet. Subjects are varied. I prefer the disarray. That’s the only way I’ll ever read them. Organizing them into binders is kind of like placing them into a coffin, where one dispassionately places a ‘headstone’ on the cover and buries it on a shelf. Exhumation is a rarity indeed. The best way to kill an idea is to organize it.

v Asimov’s Understanding Physics. I haven’t seen it in ages, but I’m pretty sure it’s right under the pile of papers and magazines. If you’re interested in the history of scientific discovery and the basics of physics, I suggest you read Asimov’s book. That man knew how to teach a subject. I'm surprised and somewhat dismayed that it isn't being used as either textbook or supplement to physics courses.

v A sleeping mask. Don’t ask me where it is exactly. I haven’t used it in ages, because by the time I get to bed I’m too tired to look for it. Taking an extra pillow and 'sandwiching' my head between them sometimes duplicates the effects of a mask. As a note, two shots of bourbon and a 20 oz. beer chaser usually render any sleeping mask obsolete. If the alcohol doesn’t work, try Benadryl or Nyquil. Among the several warnings printed on the back of the product should be one that reads, “Don’t make any f***ing plans. You’re not going anywhere.”

v A couple of extra blankets. Never hurts to have more of those. Pillows, too. I love lots of pillows. Oh. And women. Those are nice, too. I just don’t have any extras lying around at present.

v A cat maybe. I have two. Silo sleeps on the bed. Princess, when she isn’t playing “Almighty Queen-Keeper of the Living Room”, will curl up next to the bed on a heap of unfolded laundry. Albert Schweitzer was renowned for his love of animals and his musical talent as a classical pianist. The good doctor would never wake a sleeping animal and, if his beloved cat happened to fall asleep in his lap while composing, he would sit quietly until the cat awakened. If either of my precious feline companions read this blog, I want you both to realize this: My last name is not Schweitzer.

v Perhaps some dirty socks, a pair of pajamas, a bath towel, and forgotten underwear. Ok. Ok. It’s not a 'maybe'. I consider anything up to six inches underneath the side rail to be technically next to the bed, but since I seldom, out of fear no doubt, actually look under the bed, I have no idea how many fugitive briefs or running socks have taken it for a safe haven. If they make it that far, they are on their own. If you love them, set them free.

v A piece of base molding that isn’t likely to ever be installed. I have no idea what the hell it is I’m waiting for. No one else does either. The universe contains yet another unresolved riddle. It’s not that I don’t enjoy solving a good mystery here and there, but rather I prefer to sleuth the mysteries of others. My personal enigmas, ironies, and inconsistencies are much too profound for an unprofessional like myself to untangle.

v Several other books that I haven’t finished yet and will probably have to reread from the beginning. I’m notorious for reading several books at once. It’s not due to superior intelligence or even a wide range of interests, but because I’ve become a bit of a scatterbrain in the last several years and no longer possess the mental focus and acumen of my vigorous youth. I better keep taking those vitamins. I just have to somehow remember where I put them. Maybe next to bed?

So? What’s next to your bed? Or under it?

“Blessed is the person who is too busy to worry in the daytime and too sleepy to worry at night.” (Unknown)