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It could Be Worse |
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I have a terrible admission to make - I fall asleep to the radio. Usually to a classical station. Actually, in the New York area there's only one classical station anymore: 96.3 FM, the crappy station of the NY Times. There's also WNYC, which plays a lot of classical music with no commercials but lots of other types of music, too. Some not so good for falling asleep to. Like Afro-pop Worldwide or Spinning On Air. Those are great programs but I don't want to be lulled by them. I want to be kept awake by such programs, not insult the music and the programmers by snoring at 130 decibels. So if WNYC is not playing longhair music after midnight, I'll go over to 96.3, which sucks, but the only other alternative is WBGO, and they can really come alive at one or two in the morning. I remember having this terrible nightmare to the accompanying strains of a honking, wheezing, painfully sustained tenor sax solo that seemed to go on until morning's light. It filtered down to my sleeping consciousness, it became a soundtrack of night terrors. Something I definitely do not need. So the other night I was drifting into dreamland, the sandman was gently rapping at my chamber door, the nightshade was coming down, I was prepared to saw some logs: I was falling asleep. Which hasn't been easy for me lately. Lately I've had unbelievable insomnia, brought on by depression, triggered by feelings of worthlessness, an offshoot of a recent rejection, the byproduct of an rebuffed interest in the opposite sex, magnified by the recent full moon. I am affected by the moon. I know I am. This last week has been pretty hellish. I am going crazy. Lack of sleep does that. The moon will do that. I've been up late most nights, two, three AM. I pile the pillows into all sorts of arrangements. I put one cat at the foot of the bed and another at top. I open the blinds. I close the blinds. I smoke cigarettes. I read magazines. I stare at the ceiling. I imagine a better day for myself. And then I try to drift off to smooth, relaxing Ludwig Van or Moe's Art or something not too disruptive. This week it hasn't been working. I wake at seven when the alarm clock sounds and then I hit the snooze button for another nine minutes of uninterrupted bliss. It buzzes again and I hit it on its pointy little head again. Eighteen minutes gone. It hisses at me this time and I slap it down - who's in charge here? I can go on for hours this way. Thursday I was up at 6:30. And again at 6:39. And again at 6:48. And again at 6:57. You get the picture. Until I actually swung my feet out from under the blanket and onto the floor. I was groggy, disoriented, bleary-eyed, unprepared for sunshine, not ready for events of the day to start, feeling miserable about everything, wondering what disappointment the next 24 hours would hold. Truly sorry for myself. Beginning the morning with a double dose of self-pity. And then I hear that sound. You know the sound I'm talking about. That vaguely ethnic, non-offensive music they play behind the National Public Radio intros. And then NPR was on. It happened so fast I didn't have time to lunge for the volume control. I lolled on the edge of the bed, barely awake, when the Rwanda update began. It was some low-key commentator doing the bit about the tens of thousands of bodies washing down that river. It brought to mind the horrifying picture in the Times the week before. The story continued. They reporting went on location. You know how NPR does it - the native sound effects in the background, the native voice further up front, the pathetically sincere translator right in your face relating the pitiful tale of this poor creature who no matter how bad you have, has it worse. "It is terrible (they never use contractions when they translate. God forbid they say "It's terrible". No, they unfailingly say "It is terrible. My family has been slaughtered. There is no one from my village left. They were all disemboweled with dull knives". So there I am feeling terrible because I have to get a three-hundred dollar brake job. Feeling sad that I have no one to go out with. Feeling lonely, neglected, bitter. And this kid is going on: "I have to eat dirt now. There is no food. The smell of dead bodies is in my nostrils". Kinda lends some perspective, eh? It's like NPR is the "There But For The Grace Of God Go I" service. What are you supposed to say after hearing that? What could I say but "It could be worse". I suppose. I mean, it feels pretty bad to me - but I guess it could be worse. There's always someone who'll tell you that. "It could be worse". Christ, I HATE that saying. You tell me about the most awful thing that's every happened to anybody - it could be your whole village was gutted and their bodies are bloated, floating down river. But there'll be some schmuck who'll tell you "It could be worse". Don't ask me how. I tell you what, let's play a game: tell me about the worse thing that's ever happened to you and I'll tell you how it could've been worse. Actually, that's what I'd like on my headstone: "It Could've Been Worse". |
