I'm having a disastrous affair with Sleep, thanks to jetlag and a paper on post-postmodernism (don't ask). I stump to bed at 5 or 8 am, and rise at 3 pm, and claw my way back to consciousness with my eye on the darkening skies outside my flat's windows and the people on their way home or to the pub. Lights flick on and off in the big house on the sloping hill behind our building. Morse code for restlessness. I don't remember anything here.
When I do fall asleep, I have intensely erotic dreams, and dreams about people I had forgotten, and dreams about buildings falling down. Nothing is ever specific, except for this feeling of inchoate longing.
This is what's so strange about the tempo and color of these days, for it's usually my memories that carry me through writing, and now I've embarked on a project that entails writing in a different way, which is concerned not with the stuff of memories, the why of memories, but how they are constructed, and the futures of these technologies.
Meanwhile, I've been enjoying Michael Harding's columns in the Irish Times.