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Sleep

Sy Safransky's Notebook

October 2003

I stopped writing, but nothing else stopped. The days kept getting longer, then shorter, then longer again. The bombs fell, then stopped, then fell again.

By Sy Safransky October 2003
Sy Safransky's Notebook

February 2003

It’s temporary, I tell myself. Then I remember that’s true of everything: the blazing fire; our two gray cats; my lovely wife with her long graying hair. If only I never lost sight of this. If only I didn’t shut my eyes except to sleep.

By Sy Safransky February 2003
Readers Write

Going To Bed

A late night walk on the beach, Drambuie or bourbon, the dreaded Carrot Lady

By Our Readers June 2001
Readers Write

Staying Awake

A still birth, a recipe for orange duck, a young professional pianist

By Our Readers February 2001
Readers Write

Midnight

The thin wall between this world and the next, midnight letters, warm milk and molasses

By Our Readers May 2000
Readers Write

The Marriage Bed

A rouge wave, a hand-bound journal, a Catholic priest

By Our Readers March 2000
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

At My Bedroom Window

The night sky outside my window is so watery I want to backstroke into it, sink beneath its silver-flecked surface. I am sad and it is beautiful; in this, we make a good marriage. I imagine my parents up there now. Sometimes I miss them so much I’d do anything to have them back. I keep a large color photo of them on my bureau so they can watch me dress and undress every day. I no longer care if my father sees me naked.

By Genie Zeiger November 1999