Back From the Frontline of Fatigue
Until today, I had only managed to sleep in eight out of the last 72 hours. I was still functioning; I competently bought provisions in Bayswater, my butternut squash risotto was a triumph with the whole house, I was able to watch an episode of Quatermass IV on TV while still following its subtleties and even held a decent conversation, offering advice on a concept as abstract as making a successful presentation to one of David Cameron's review groups. I was functioning, but in the same way a plane does just before all its instruments strobe and flicker then fail simultaneously as it drops uncontrollably from 23,000 feet.
The bone-deep tiredness that came crashing over me in increasing waves meant I was beginning to drift away to another planet. I had started the Sunday teary, emotionally raw and vulnerable. The encroaching exhaustion made it hard to connect to underlying hurts and fears. I began losing time in bouts of unbidden, uncontrollable contemplation. Of course, by the time I could actually get to bed, I had crashed through the wall of drowsiness and spent the early hours of the morning in a state of jungle-wired alertness hearing every creak of the house as it settled and the continuous low drone of the Westway traffic.
By the time Today came on the radio, it was clear I desperately needed to spend the next few hours recharging. This was achieved by gentle dozing and meditation till about 11; a late breakfast at my favourite Spanish café in Bayswater who do their own spin on arroz a la cubana with fried banana and eggs; some geek reading and then a walk for a few of miles along the canal. As the drizzle began to turn into hard, cold bouts of rain, I found I had long stretches of both my outward and return journeys free from the usual fuckwit cyclists and more aggressive bench drinkers you sometimes encounter when heading towards Kensal Town. I stayed out of drift mode and drew energy from the landscape, the weather, and the echoes of history crackling in the psychic static of the places I moved through.
Sheltering under a bridge during the most antagonistic phase of the downpour, I drank in every sensation: the sound of water hitting water; the bass rumble vibrations transmitted through Victorian brickwork as lorries and double-deckers passed overhead; the smell of damp newspapers; the soothing trace as beads of rain travelled down my forehead; the pull as wind played with my leather overcoat. I was awake, alive; back from the frontline of fatigue with words to write and a glint back in eye.
The bone-deep tiredness that came crashing over me in increasing waves meant I was beginning to drift away to another planet. I had started the Sunday teary, emotionally raw and vulnerable. The encroaching exhaustion made it hard to connect to underlying hurts and fears. I began losing time in bouts of unbidden, uncontrollable contemplation. Of course, by the time I could actually get to bed, I had crashed through the wall of drowsiness and spent the early hours of the morning in a state of jungle-wired alertness hearing every creak of the house as it settled and the continuous low drone of the Westway traffic.
By the time Today came on the radio, it was clear I desperately needed to spend the next few hours recharging. This was achieved by gentle dozing and meditation till about 11; a late breakfast at my favourite Spanish café in Bayswater who do their own spin on arroz a la cubana with fried banana and eggs; some geek reading and then a walk for a few of miles along the canal. As the drizzle began to turn into hard, cold bouts of rain, I found I had long stretches of both my outward and return journeys free from the usual fuckwit cyclists and more aggressive bench drinkers you sometimes encounter when heading towards Kensal Town. I stayed out of drift mode and drew energy from the landscape, the weather, and the echoes of history crackling in the psychic static of the places I moved through.
Sheltering under a bridge during the most antagonistic phase of the downpour, I drank in every sensation: the sound of water hitting water; the bass rumble vibrations transmitted through Victorian brickwork as lorries and double-deckers passed overhead; the smell of damp newspapers; the soothing trace as beads of rain travelled down my forehead; the pull as wind played with my leather overcoat. I was awake, alive; back from the frontline of fatigue with words to write and a glint back in eye.
Labels: Canal, Fatigue, Quatermass
posted by David at 11:27 PM
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