Jan Saenredam: Night, or Woman Sleeping by the Fire (1595)

"I will have experienced more than A DecentNight's sleep, I guess, but A DecentNight nonetheless."

After I’d confided that I slept four or five hours each night, my internist asked if I might be interested in enrolling in one of the sleep studies conducted by our local Sleep Center. I wondered why I should agree to that, and he responded that it might allow me to experience A DecentNight’s sleep. I asked what made my solid four or five hours indecent, and he replied that people generally require more than a solid four or five hours to maintain a decent life. He spoke briefly on the insidious effects of sleep apnea. I responded that I exhibited none of the symptoms associated with sleep dysfunction, and even if I did, I would never consent to wearing a vacuum cleaner on my face in bed. I consider my sleep needs evidence of a biodiversity and not some syndrome requiring therapy. My internist has not mentioned the subject since.

The Muse, though, reports that I snorkel and snore, evidence that I might be exhibiting the presence of some dysfunctional sleep disturbance. How would I know? It seems indecent to consent to treat a disorder one can’t quite believe in. I have plenty of so-called silent killers stalking me, without my sleeping practice being called into question. I actively treat my heart disease I cannot sense, and my chronically high blood pressure that never once produced physical evidence of its presence, and high “bad” cholesterol, which seems to have run in my family for generations and maybe even did in a few of my forebears. I stand by my decision to refuse to wear a vacuum cleaner on my face in bed.

Besides, there are many more uses for night than sleep. A DecentNight for me involves hitting the hay early, around nine PM, and sleeping until well after one the following morning, when I’m apt to spontaneously wake up feeling adequately refreshed. I’ll sometimes lollygag around until my two AM alarm sounds, then stifle the three and four o’clock back-ups before rising for good. I head for my thinking chair, the one overlooking the street out front, and commence to consider my world. Our cat Max will have been dozing contentedly on the couch, and I will have stopped to appreciate his presence on my way across the vast front rooms. He often shows up shortly after I sit down, to collect a few head scratches and curl up in my lap to provide reassuring background sounds. This is how I start most mornings.

I feel free to contemplate to my heart’s desire. I seek a theme to write about, but there’s no ritual or process for successfully discovering that. I roam and ramble in my head, tangling myself up in almost senseless questions. I meditate, if only to continue the ritual I’ve performed every morning since the early seventies. I actively procrastinate, figuring I have almost all the time in the world before the sun comes up and I’m imbedded in territory only I ever inhabit. These hours are mine and I profligately waste them as if they were infinite. I sometimes doze, awakening with enough of a start to startle Max, who might return to his much more comfortable couch. I will stumble upon a theme then slowly rise to brew myself a massive cup of decaf before wending my way upstairs in the dark to my writing desk. I rarely turn on lights when I’m roaming around through my early morning.

The next hour or so I go functionally unconscious. I’m writing, and so actively listening to the little voices in my head that I am dead to the rest of the world, at least until Max slips in through the back window to yowl beneath my chair, complaining that I have neglected to feed him that morning. I will briefly break away to escort my chief complaintant down to where he can discover his breakfast already laid out there, waiting more patiently for him than he’s ever waited for it. By the time The Muse awakens, I’ve circumnavigated my universe a couple of times and often feel moved to lie down for a few minutes, as if to recover from the excursion. I will have experienced more than A DecentNight’s sleep, I guess, but A DecentNight nonetheless.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Decency, #PureSchmaltz