In recent weeks – months? – at least since quarantine, maybe earlier – I’ve found myself sleepless or nearly sleepless on many Sunday nights.
Last night, I was thinking about the different ways different political phenomena affect me – how Trump, for example, has, in a sustained and durable way, dampened my libido. How COVID, if anything – and inexplicably – has done the opposite. And how – surprising, to me – the recent police murders and the revulsion they have unleashed, haven’t had a discernible impact.
I was thinking about V – whom, as always, I miss. And Sofia. With whom I’m still in touch, but whom I miss nonetheless. And about Marina. Whom I’ve lost for a finite, but long, stretch – and whom I miss. Already.
I thought, also, about a piece of writing for another part of my life that I have been unable to finish. And about another, similar piece of writing that I haven’t been able to start.
I thought about the last massage I had, just before quarantine began, about the woman I generally see for massages, every few weeks, about how I prepaid for five or six massages at the start of quarantine to do my part to tide her over – and about how stiff my right shoulder has been for months, now.
I thought about a woman I’ve not written about, but who sucked my cock expertly just a week before quarantine. About Hope, who hasn’t sucked my cock in a long, long, time, but who, shortly before quarantine, treated me to several delectable hours together. And about Tamora, whose mouth – and tits – I miss. I thought about Isabel, with whom I’ve been in friendly touch, but whose playfulness – and whose ass – I miss. About my friend, who seems to have disappeared (and about whom I worry). About a woman I once wrote extensively about but who asked me to take down all I had written, but who, in recent months, has taken to sending me delicious, tantalizing – extremely creative and well composed – photos of her spectacular body. As well as sending me some excellent conversation and at least one trenchant, really useful, observation. And about L, she who gets credit for the very idea of this blog, and all she’s been going through.
I thought about the demonstrations I went to over the weekend, and I wondered about both the youth and the whiteness of these demonstrations in very diverse neighborhoods. I also wondered about the public health implications of the impossibility of physical distancing. And of the cops, ostentatiously unmasked.
I thought about the fish in my freezer and the yogurt in my fridge. About the sparrows (?) that inexplicably begin their serenade not at 4:30 or 5, when the robins start to sing, but at 3. I fantasized about ways to make them stop. I found a path to enjoying their singing.
I meditated. I did a body scan. I counted my breaths. I watched my breath. I felt how my annoyance, my irritability, grew and grew throughout the night.
I thought about the ways I’ve failed my family. And about the ways I’ve tried to do right by them.
I thought about my uncle and aunt, in their 80s, who just had a house party, and reported having hugged most of their guests. I thought of how, when moments later, I learned they were considering voting for the Orange Menace, I heard myself say, “Well, maybe you’ll die before election day.” I thought about the apology – first spoken, and then written – that I quickly issued, and I thought of how they hadn’t even been slightly perturbed.
I thought about my friend S, who does international relief work, who’s right now on a plane to build a COVID hospital in a country where COVID is just picking up.
I thought about the two cans of Diet Coke I had, uncharacteristically, yesterday evening, and wondered if the caffeine in them contributed to my sleeplessness.
I ate a small piece of a THC gummy in hopes it would help. I took several longer drags on a THC vape pen in hopes it would help. Neither did.
The one thing I didn’t do? Sleep.