Dear Editor formerly known at the Producer

Oh the hypnagogic… I’m already 100 pages into your delightful book, playing with my big grey noodle while I wring the pages for sweet intellectual ambrosia. Delicious.

I was stranded at Pearson for seven hours due to a flub up with my reservation. I spent the first bit in fitful starts of sleep, trying to make myself comfortable in the most isolated spot I could find. My bag was not really adequetely packed to function as a pillow. Fortunately I remembered something and made a point to persue it as soon as I could check in.

Westjet flights go out of B wing in terminal three. A busy, bustling nightmare of bodies and breath and clueless travellers. But under the tarmac and three magic carpets away lies something else, an airport oasis of a sort, unknown to all but the few…

A wing. Half a dozen gates that never, ever get used. The underground hallway to reach them is so long that the doors at the opposite end could stack one upon the other on your fingernail. A million miles away from the cow herding gridlock. The lights are on, once in a while a staffer wanders by in a neon orange vest, but for the most part you are totally alone. The storefronts are derelict, empty, no shelves, cash registers dead, nothing makes a sound.

If you’re stuck in Pearson, there’s no better place to spend a few hours, with 180 degrees of glass enclosed views, and nobody around.

This is where I dipped my toes into The Head Trip.

The combination of the engrossing subject matter and the isolation attuned my brain in a way that I rarely get to experience. Crystal fucking clarity. No convention, no expectation, just me, my brain and my senses. No society, no blathering crackling PA system. Clarity. Abandonment is such a beautiful place to find things.

When I boarded the flight I got a window seat, put my jacket in the porthole and immediately set out for the hypnagogic void. I think that’s why I enjoy sleeping on planes, busses and trains so much. Its a transitory space with nothing to do. No better place or time to play in the foyer of dreams, going down in bouts of ten to twenty minutes, interrupted only by drink service and snack mix.

Tonight I just finished reading The Wake and looked at my own sleep habits in the mirror, the natural unfiltered one. My wake is backwards and upside down, happening somewhere between noon and two pm. I did it today. Got up for a few hours around midday, then wandered back to sleep until about five or six. Now I’m ready for my night’s work, alert and ready to go.

I also think about those nights spent in the Temple of Respect, the Kanuckistan dome or piled among strangers around some deep playa fire sculpture while fireballs concuss nearby. Polyphasic tribal sleep is some of the most beautiful and restful I’ve ever had. Party crashouts might be the #1 way to go.

If I follow my own circadian rhythms I’ll probably be up until about seven. How I ended up with a nocturnal brain we may never know, but its how I roll.

Hope you’re doing well with your readjustment to work and a rum reduced diet.

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