Friday, August 22, 2008

Sore Labour's Bath

Napoleon apparently recommended "Six hours sleep for a man, seven for a woman and eight for a fool." Seven is my natural pattern, so I guess this means I'm a man during the week yearning to be a woman, and an idiot on weekends yearning to catch up.

I like to get up early (having a dog helps) but, especially in an election year, I don't want to miss The Daily Show. (I don't want to miss Colbert either, but that's right around when lying down on the couch starts to seem like a much better idea than sitting up.)

I woke up tired this morning (the joys of Friday!) and thought of Macbeth:
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--"
The first line always made me think of a falling-apart sweater that needed refurbishing (or maybe an artfully deconstructed Rick Owens piece), but as it turns out, a "sleave" is not an archaic misspelling but a now-obsolete term for a skein of silk, and I like the idea of the tangled, tender strands of an awful day being rearranged by a good night's slumber.

And lately, my mind is hurting.

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