JJ: I Need a Notebook

Odd memories and other bits of low drama keep popping up and ricocheting around my skull, but they usually pick 0300 to do it and by the time I am finally and fully awake (hopefully by 1000) all that is the left is a brief residue of their visit. Footprints in the sand have nothing over my brain and its retention patterns. Maybe having writing materials by the bed would help. I seem to go to bed, go quickly to sleep, sleep soundly -- REM sleep -- for 3-4 hours, then wake up and remain awake for several more hours before I drop back into more REM sleep. That window of wakefulness is when old memories start floating back up and this blog would be both longer and spicier if I started recording them. That is where bedside writing materials would help. Jotting a couple of notes about past events should be enough of a hook for me to dredge them back up when I am sitting at the keyboard. Here is a typical flashback: I read once of some Canadian Remittance Men (offspring of the English gentry and aristocracy, who are paid by their families to live away from home, either for their crimes and sins or simply because they are inconvenient) lazing an afternoon away by laying -- probably drunk -- in their bunks and potting flies off of the cabin ceiling with with their .45 Colts. I just HAD to duplicate that one hot August afternoon in the den at my old house, but used a BB pistol. I couldn't afford roof repairs. I missed a lot of flies but did manage to hit the ceiling every shot. Keeping the windows and doors open kept me supplied with targets till I ran out of ammo and the ceiling looked like a complex connect-the-dots pattern. Actually, I wish I'd taken a picture of it, I might have discovered something about myself, like I'd taken a Rorschach test. Yeah, it was one of those odd lost times right after the divorce, and I was alone and bored and lonely. TBC (Me)