With the date confirmed, we arranged our diaries so that we had nothing extra to do the next day, except my treatment regime, cook lunch and dinner, etc, and made sure everything was done that evening so that we were ready and prepared for bed, with lights out, to start the Max Richter album, Sleep.
At 10pm exactly, I pressed play on Spotify.
Now, dear reader, just to bring you up to speed, I had read some wonderful reviews by people who had listened to Max Richter's Sleep, whether that be on album or the fortunate people who had experienced it live. And, almost unanimously, they waxed lyrical about how incredibly relaxing it had been, many saying they had experienced the best, most refreshing night's sleep they had had in decades. A few compared it to Brian Eno's beautiful ambient albums. Well, let me prepare you in advance: my experience was anything but relaxing and rejuvenating.
During the first ten minutes there was something profound about the feelings that the music stirred in me, and I recall my wife and I clutching hands during this time. Gradually, though, we both disengaged our fingers from each other and changed positions, as partners often do when falling asleep. And then suddenly, in the pitch darkness, memories began to invade my consciousness from many different episodes of my life. And these weren't just fleeting memories. They were intense, and it was as if I was back in those situations. I saw my life as a boy in the little terraced house in North Wales where I lived until I was seven. Crystal clear memories (more like a lived vision, in all honesty), of things I loved dearly back then: my train set, my pet rabbit, railway memorabilia that I had collected but which has long gone, my Flockton Flyer book, my mum's sister's husband, and, of course, my Mum and my Nain and Taid. I recall sobbing and asking them for their forgiveness, asking them if they knew how much I loved them, hoping beyond words that they did. Oceanic feelings of guilt swept in, leaving me shattered. I hope I returned your love, was about all I could say.
I then recall Lydia woke suddenly and needed a drink, and after this she very quickly fell asleep again. I knew this as I could hear her gentle purring and feel the change in her breathing next to me.
The next stage I experienced was intense feelings of death; my own, the people around me who I love, even the death of the animals and the world itself. I could feel myself almost breaking at this point, and just when I thought I couldn't take much more, a complete change came about in my thoughts and memories. In what seemed like an instant, I was then recalling vividly some of the most ecstatic and euphoric happenings of my life. Some of mine and Lydia's favourite places, singing on stage in Les Misérables, and most intriguingly, memories of mine and Lydia's date nights, with her wearing some of her most flirtatious outfits that I absolutely adore. But, suddenly, in the midst of this euphoria, something subtly changed. It was as if a force, an energy, was trying to deceive me. Deep inside my psyche I knew this was not now Lydia making me feel these things, and this sudden knowledge helped me break this particular spell. I managed to force myself to wake and sit up in bed and bring myself back to consciousness. Reflecting on this, I am compelled to consider the thought that a succubus had entered the scene, but who knows if that is what had actually happened.
In the meantime, as I lay back down, the mood subtly changed once again. We have deep green velvet curtains covering our windows and it was pitch black in our room, except for the slightest chink of light coming from the speaker that was on the floor in the corner, and which was mostly hidden by the ottoman. I desperately tried to get to sleep, changed position a few times, but found it impossible. Richter's haunting music enveloped the room and completely invaded my body, mind and soul. In an attempt to sleep - even though by doing this I knew I was letting the side down - I put my headphones on so I could listen to the TV series Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, a tactic which usually works very well for me when I am struggling to get to sleep. But it was no use. I could hear the bass and haunting singing above the headphones, and the eeriness was utterly overwhelming. I now felt like there were most definitely spirits in the room with me. In the dark corner by the mirror, the small speaker light was barely shining but I was too petrified to look in that direction even though my attention was constantly trying to get me to do so. I was convinced there was something in that corner of the room. I contemplated just sitting up and having the courage to look brazenly into that specific corner of darkness to see if anything happened. But I simply could not do it; The most I could bring myself to do was glance nervously and then quickly look away. Once again I swapped positions multiple times. I did some photo art on my phone to try and distract my mind as it was all becoming too much. I was caught completely between desperately wanting to see somebody like my mum, Nain or Taid, yet at the same time being gripped by the fear that it might, but wouldn't, actually happen. I was completely torn between feeling terrified that they might be upset with me over the kind of things my mind had been thinking of earlier, yet wondering if this might be my one and only opportunity to connect with them again in this world. It was an intolerable impasse and I was now truly exhausted. I looked at my phone and saw that it was now 5.30am, and I knew that I simply couldn't take this any more. I decided I had to turn the Max Richter album off as it was all becoming far too distressing, and I knew that if I continued there would be no chance of me getting any sleep, and I was already physically and emotionally shattered. So I turned off what remained to be played of Max Richter's Sleep album, and very hesitantly found the small light on our landing, and turned it on so I could go to the bathroom. I recall thinking how I could never have gone into our bathroom had everywhere been in pitch darkness, so thank goodness for the immediate convenience of that small night light. After this, I came back to bed and, eventually, managed a restless doze. At 9.40am our doorbell rang (which I answered) and then at 10am (the time Max Richter's Sleep was scheduled to finish) Lydia's alarm went off and she woke up. When I came back into our bedroom, I felt a very real need to open both our windows and let some fresh air in, and Lydia said later that I must have intuitively known what to do, as, through her knowledge of Daoism, that is what she would have suggested that I do. She also asked me to bless the corner of the room that I had found so mysterious and haunting, just to make sure that if there were any supernatural happenings occurring there, especially if it involved loved ones, to let them know that everything was fine and that there were no bad feeling towards them, and which would also, at the same time, clear the space if unwelcome and uninvited spirits had been hanging around, which, due to my experience, could well have been the case.
And with that ended my "relaxing and rejuvenating" experience with Max Richter's album, Sleep. I have read many more reviews of this album, since then, and, as far as I can tell, no one who has written has had an experience even remotely similar to mine. All of their reviews tell of a similar tale: relaxing, rejuvenating, deeply soulful, a spiritual awakening, etc. Lydia, too, remembered very little of the night and she had slept very well. But no, this wasn't what occurred with me. My experience had been the complete opposite. It was incredibly difficult at times, but I don't regret doing it. Perhaps I conversed with spirits in the otherworld, or maybe I connected in a very profound way with memories that are usually hidden so deep that I can't reach them (or they me). I guess I will never know for certain exactly what happened. But, either way, my experience, when compared with everyone else's, confirmed only too well what I am already painfully aware of:
I'm a weirdo.
The Nightmare (1781)
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