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The Row Boat"Had we but world enough, and time..." * Counting Sheep3/08/2005 00:14:08In medieval Europe, the moment of death was considered crucial for the eternal well-being of the soul. Devils and angels waited around the dying in contest to snatch their souls. Death, therefore, must be treated carefully; the instant before the end may be the most important of a person's whole life. One was to be constantly in remembrance of that coming moment and constantly in patient expectation. This is the meaning of the haunting Latin phrase ars moriendi. This same tradition represents sleep as a figure for death. The connection between the two can be summarized in the traditional monastic prayer said at the very end of the day: "May the almighty Lord grant us a restful night and a peaceful death." Like death, sleep is a tremendous submission. In it, we abandon our conscious control and decision, giving reign of ourselves to the strange powers in control of dreams. The monks also used to sing, From all ill dreams defend our eyes, from nightly fears and fantasies: tread under foot our ghostly foe, that no pollution we may know. I subscribe very closely to the sacredness of the moment before sleep. It is when memory begins to slip away and the busy mind finally succumbs. Years ago, when I used to have trouble sleeping, and old enough to feel silly climbing in my parents' bed, I discovered a strategy of fantasy that would lead me unsuspecting into unconsciousness. I would concoct great battles in my mind, fortresses and weapons, strategies and reasons. They would be enacted on the field of my bed. A great battle, a beautiful maneuver, might be repeated for months, night after night, infiltrated by tiny modifications each time. This ritual was soothing enough to ease me to sleep, but pleasant enough to hold my attention until then. Climbing into bed, I would always look forward to it. Finding such a perfect mechanism to fit one's soul is an exhilarating thing. It worked always. As I grew up, I wanted less and less to think of wars, as distantly and abstractly as my imagination made them (the prevailing sound was a whisper), right before falling to sleep. It felt like the wrong ars moriendi; I didn't want to meet my sleeping soul with killing. Strange that war was so soothing to me. After years in between, sleeping fine without a trick beyond the common rituals and a prayer, I have found a new fantasy. I have taken to inventing cities in the middle of the empty desert. Isolated places, perfectly planned or maybe not, soaring, and strange. This fantasy is a beautiful and hopeful one to me, melancholy yet comforting. A feeling I very much associate with sleep.  This is a picture I once drew that resembles my sleep. I'm not sure what tales this tells, but I find these fantasies very beautiful. I forget about them all day and remember them happily when climbing into bed. They sound a lot like the colonial cities Stephen Mitchell describes in Colonizing Egypt, made right along side the old native ones. I saw this in Tunisia. It is an odd thing to have a blank slate, an empty desert (or one that Empire considers to be practically so), and the free reign of immateriality. It is in colonies and ideas. In both, the mind presents a crafted image. What follows, the nation, the dreams, the life after death, will forever be informed by the moment of decision, last decision, before choas assumes posession. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - |
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