I was sleeping, really sleeping, and getting rest. I got a bit cold, so I reached out without getting up, and pulled the first thing I touched over me. It happened o be a lap robe, and later I reached again and grasped a terry cloth beach towel. And I snuggled down and slept again.
Eventually I stirred, and by the dim glow from the street lights outside, I could see what I had created. "My God, I have created a nest for myself."
What am I, a bird? A perfect nest, in the tree top that is my bed.
Then my left brain wakes up a bit and begins to search for the word that describes what I have done: ascribed an animal trait to my human behavior. I fancy myself a writer, so my writer's brain should know the word.
Maybe I can think of the word if I find its opposite: the word that attributes human traits to animal or plant behavior. That is what I did when I wrtoe about the winter roses. I said they were striving to be noticed by the few humming birds or bees who have not hibernated or migrated. The winter roses grow taller and put forth more gaudy blossoms, because they want pollenation.
Finally that word comes to mind: anthropromorphism. Let the spell checker deal with that. But what is the opposite? What word descibes my attributing animal characteristics to my building a nest?
It is three AM and the body wants to sleep but the brain does not.
If I fall asleep on my back, the base of the brain gets the full blood supply and the autonomic systems take over. My breathing becomes deep and regular, my heart beats rugularly, and I sleep restfully.
Soon I roll to my left side and the left brain gets the nourishment and begins word searches, and I begin composing chapters for my novel. But nothing new happens.
I roll to my right and the creative side of my brain begins to stir. I create, in dream form, a land with a shoreline where creatures from the sea come forth and meet the land creatures, humans with four legs. I compose music and the creatures dance, and I choriograph their movements: patterns my left brain could never describe.
Finally I roll face down and the frontal lobes of the brain begin to stir and I remember things. I remember the pleasures of the past, and of the past day. Alas, I remember the pains and anguishes, too, and the "tapes" begin to play that contain the anxieties and worries of the past, over and over
At last, I get up, pull on a shirt for warmth, and lo and behold the computer is ON. Did I leave it on? I am sure I turned if OFF. Yet, it is going. Hooray. I sit down and write this.
I will sip some tea I have in the microwave and read this entry. I will not edit it... it is a stream of consciousness...one cannot edit that.