Insomnia. Dreams. And recursion.
Oct. 8th, 2006 02:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhythmaningI slept badly last night. I woke after only a few minutes, thinking it was a few hours; so I thought it was early, and it wasn’t even late.
And then I couldn’t get back to sleep.
I switched the radio on; R3 had some classical-jazz fusion, which I would normally have been interested in, but when struggling to drift off I really didn’t need angular saxophones jarring my thoughts. Classic FM (not usually a viable option; I hate its dumbing down) had something much more in keeping with my situation – a minimalist piano piece by someone (I think) called Peter Hertzman (it isn’t listed on their website).
I still couldn’t sleep.
Lines from the songs they performed in Tutti Frutti kept going through my head – the show, in its darker side – clearly affected me. Love? Stabbings? Suicide? Huh! The potent power of pop songs – lovelorn lyrics and adolescent scribblings.
I tried 5Live – they have a movie phone-in for insomniacs, and I very nearly called in.
In the early hours, I must have drifted off, because I dreamt.
(I have not discussed dreams on LJ before; I generally think other people’s dreams don’t really make for great entertainment. But f*ck it, this is my journal; and this was weird, even by my dream standards.)
I dreamt I was in bed in my brother’s flat in Hampstead; it was daylight outside. Children dressed in red were climbing over the garden fence, poking around, and then proceeded to climb over the next fence, heading up the hill. There were four of them, scrambling over the fence.
Then the dream-me fell asleep. And dreamed. I was climbing through scaffolding – smart, architecture scaffolding; and hunting in small rooms. I took a lift on a motorbike to an airport, where the driver of the bike gave me two £20 notes.
Dream-me woke up.
And I was in Hampstead, in bed, looking out of the window.
Then I really woke up. The grand prix was on the radio, the screaming of the engines must have woken me.
And then I couldn’t get back to sleep.
I switched the radio on; R3 had some classical-jazz fusion, which I would normally have been interested in, but when struggling to drift off I really didn’t need angular saxophones jarring my thoughts. Classic FM (not usually a viable option; I hate its dumbing down) had something much more in keeping with my situation – a minimalist piano piece by someone (I think) called Peter Hertzman (it isn’t listed on their website).
I still couldn’t sleep.
Lines from the songs they performed in Tutti Frutti kept going through my head – the show, in its darker side – clearly affected me. Love? Stabbings? Suicide? Huh! The potent power of pop songs – lovelorn lyrics and adolescent scribblings.
I tried 5Live – they have a movie phone-in for insomniacs, and I very nearly called in.
In the early hours, I must have drifted off, because I dreamt.
(I have not discussed dreams on LJ before; I generally think other people’s dreams don’t really make for great entertainment. But f*ck it, this is my journal; and this was weird, even by my dream standards.)
I dreamt I was in bed in my brother’s flat in Hampstead; it was daylight outside. Children dressed in red were climbing over the garden fence, poking around, and then proceeded to climb over the next fence, heading up the hill. There were four of them, scrambling over the fence.
Then the dream-me fell asleep. And dreamed. I was climbing through scaffolding – smart, architecture scaffolding; and hunting in small rooms. I took a lift on a motorbike to an airport, where the driver of the bike gave me two £20 notes.
Dream-me woke up.
And I was in Hampstead, in bed, looking out of the window.
Then I really woke up. The grand prix was on the radio, the screaming of the engines must have woken me.