Painkiller, a poem by J. Mayhall

Ardent work is a painkiller,
like just your handwriting on a page,
and doing mathematics--that connects with central
neurological tracks, vast circulatory blood-

lights, into aphrodisiacal
forgetfulness. And the more aching a line
of poem, the more it lulls.
Intense dancers on broken toes

insist they never noticed. Like Tchaikovsky
using his tears on laboring music scores, the
melody narcotic. Or running the good
race eludes the hurt.

Mind over matter? It's the brandy gift
of life. Or from a crack in Nothingness--
creation of the world. And must have
been some backbreaking,

godless job. Enormous, long time
over-hours. Working like a dog, that
sweet analgesic postponement
of the End.

by Jane Mayhall
Sleeping Late on Judgment Day, Alfred A. Knopf, 2004

My 24-hour-cycles last 25 1/2 hours

A couple of days ago I went to bed at 8 a.m., then 10 a.m. yesterday, and probably noon today. I wake up at dinner time. It's just like having jet lag.

Although I avidly try to avoid moving to a later and later bedtime, my body's clock is ultimately in charge. If I have pain that disallows sleep, I've immediately lost any hope of a bedtime that makes sense. With pain, my nurtured bedtime proves to be quite unsupported in comparison to what my body's clock has known as "days".

As with many symptoms, it has taken me a long time to realize my lengthening sleeping cycle (noticed for 15 years now) was largely due to brain/pituitary functions. It often seemed there were other reasons...

multiple sclerosis