Windy City Times, The Voice of Chicago's Gay and Lesbian Community, Dec 27, 2000Copyright © 2000 Lambda Publications Inc. All rights reserved. |
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by Alix Dobkin
INSOMNIA (part 2)
In my column Insomnia Part 1, I described various remedies I devised nightly as a child to deliver me from the lifelong torment of insomnia. I clearly recall the various fantasies I summoned to occupy my chronically restless mind until at long last, laggard sleep eventually arrived to relieve my monotony.
Should customary fantasies of a luxuriously equipped paradise island for me and my closest friends, or taking inventory of a wardrobe boasting the latest fashion of every possible skirt, dress, sweater and blouse in an assortment of colors complete with matching accessories and shoes fail to send me to sleep, I might then imagine myself playing pro-ball. But that was too complicated to pursue. Women would have to have won the right to play in the Majors, which was more like a political problem than a fantasy, and all I wanted to do was to play ball.
Some fretful nights I'd lie awake and single-handedly beat up the gang of boys from across town who had showed up in Riverside park one afternoon and chased us off the field in the middle of a game. I'd climb a tree, wait for them to gather under it, and leap down on them like Gene Kelly in The Three Musketeers.
Another favorite scene involved oratorical confrontation with a succession of enemies, ranging from Hitler to J. Edgar Hoover. My impassioned speeches, supremely logical and witty, delivered to a shocked and shaken villain, would inspire the troops (milling just outside) to storm in and bring them to justice as a journalists (also milling) requested interviews. Nowadays a modest variation on the same kinds of theme will occasionally flash through my mind as I write political commentary for my column.
One miserable night when I was about ten, after exhausting my fantasy repertoire, I got up and slipped around the foot of my bed to the window, directly above my best friend Mike's. That week we had installed an intricate signal and transfer system between our windows, a contraption consisting of string, a flag and a basket. In desperation I scribbled a mindless note, deposited it in the basket, and lowered it down to his window.
The hour was long past both of our bedtimes, and there was no response to my flag. Nothing and no one stirred, no traffic disturbed the quiet of 83rd Street. I tugged harder on the signal string. It snapped, sending basket and cargo three stories down onto an inaccessible metal grating at the bottom of the building's airshaft where it joined a collection of pink Spalding balls, toy remnants, the strings and tin cans from earlier walkie-talkie systems, and other wretched refuse from our slippery fingers. Despairing, I stared down at the dark shapes and shadows. There was no way to reach Mike, no one to talk to, and nothing interesting left to think about.
Even nightmares were preferable.
Nightmares, unlike fantasies, were decidedly unheroic. Sometimes I was chased by a witch who resembled Witch Hazel from Little Lulu and sounded like Basil Rathbone in his terrifying rendition of Hansel's abductor. Around an overgrown, curved path we ran. Part of me wanted to be caught, but I would wake before it happened. There was a lot I liked about witches, and in fact became one for several Halloweens after I outgrew my skeleton outfit and before my final masquerade as a TV set complete with coat hanger aerial in sixth grade.
In another dream, Nazis shooting guns chased me up a hill towards a safe house. I absolutely did NOT want to be captured, but overcome with weariness, I lay down and embraced the hillside, weary of fighting and running. In passive surrender to delicious unconsciousness, I lay my cheek upon the soft, cool grass and stopped struggling.
The most comical dream I can remember was both frightening and heroic. Tarzan and I had rounded up a gang of unshaven brutes in the playground by the jungle gym. They looked like the bad "Beagle Boys" gang from Donald Duck comics and struggled desperately as I circled again and again, winding a rope around and around them. But I couldn't hold them alone for long. Where was Tarzan? He had vanished. I tried calling to him but could not produce a sound. I tried again. Silence. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and yelled, "TAR- ZAAAN!" as loud as I could. This time, success! But it was Mom, not Tarzan, who came to my rescue.
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