I need a new form to record my simplest memories. Take the ones I have of sleeping, for example:
Sleep Line:
Date: 4 Feb 95
Time: 12:35 to 7:55 a.m.
Where: in bed at our Paris address
Who: with Paul
Accessories: two pillows & one comforter
Position: on back
3 Feb 95
1.21 to 9:10 a.m.
in bed then on the couch in the living room at our Paris address
with Paul then alone
two pillows & one comforter then one pillow & two blankets
on back, side, stomach
30 Sep 94
12:02 to 7:50 a.m.
in bed at our Paris address
with Paul
two pillows & one comforter
on side, curled against Paul, then on back
30 Sep 93
1:45 to 3:30 a.m. & 5:00 a.m. to noon
in bed at Paul’s apartment (my new Paris address) then on the couch
with Paul then alone
several pillows and blankets and one sleeping pill
Tossing, turning, checking clock, shivering, crying
12 August 93
11:30 p.m. to 6:45 a.m.
on a mattress on the living room floor of our second San Francisco address
alone (it was Dan’s turn to sleep in the bed in our bedroom)
one pillow, two sheets
on back
12 July 92
4 to 8 a.m.
in a bed in an apartment in Noe Valley
with a man named Philip
several large pillows, an overstuffed quilt, candles
on side, curled against his body
15 June 92
3 to 10 a.m.
in bed in our Nob Hill apartment
with Dan and Jack
several pillows, one sheet
on the edge of the bed on my back with Jack’s hand on my chest and Dan’s hand reaching behind Jack’s neck to rest in my hair
14 May 92
2 to 8 a.m.
in bed in our Nob Hill apartment
with Dan
one sheet, two pillows
on side, curled against Dan
12 Jan 92
6 to 10 a.m.
in bed in a flat somewhere north-east of London
with a man named Peter
two pillows, one comforter
with my head on his chest
2 October 90
3 to 10 a.m.
in a big bed somewhere on the upper-west side of Manhattan
with a man whose name I don’t remember
lots of big pillows and a huge comforter
on my back
12 March 88
4 to 8 p.m. 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.
in a big bed in a house in the suburbs of New Orleans belonging to the parents of a friend
alone
a comforter, a sheet and, on the nightstand, lots of pillows, juice and aspirins
tossing and turning, burning up with fever
5 June 77
10 p.m. to 6:30 a.m.
in my bed in my childhood home in Downers Grove
alone
giant glow in the dark rosary beads, two stuffed animals, one pillow, one sheet, two blankets
on my back
I’d like to trace the details of every night of sleep during the duration of my life, from the most boring, dream-free slumber right up through restless, post-orgy delirium. I would add columns to store any and all information that might have influenced my slumber according to a wide spectrum of sleep theories.
At a certain level, there is nothing more embarrassing than sleep, not even eating, shitting, or fucking. To slip into unconsciousness in front of someone who might still be in the process of judging you, is almost shameful, even sad. By doing so, you admit your physical, mental weakness, your proximity to mortality. On the other hand, to release consciousness together with another being whose name you’ve hardly heard but whose skin you’ve smelled, touched and tasted—whose fluids you’ve smeared on your heaving chest—is a ritual wail against the tragedy of your humanity. The sleep of lovers rejects the fleeting, conscious protection society offers its members against the inevitability of death.
I should add a special emotion column in my table to measure (on a scale of one to ten) the degree of ease and comfort experienced during each session of repose. Crashing on the lumpy, pull-out couch of the friend of a friend would classify as a one or two. Curling up between the satiated bodies of my most intimate lovers in silk sheets at dawn in San Francisco would count as a ten.