I started napping in France. Most days, I left the office at noon, walked to tiny park on the Rue Balzac, ate lunch, reclined on a bench, set a timer on my phone, and covered my face with a book or newspaper.
Over time, I’ve tried the espresso nap (drink an espresso right beforehand), the Salvador Dalí nap (hold a spoon while you’re nodding off, then wake up when it hits to the floor), but I’ve learned to keep it simple, a nice twelve or fifteen minutes after lunch—long enough to rest, short enough to avoid a hangover. I lay on the couch. I close my eyes. There’s a pleasant sinking feeling, a mental dumbing, like a cello is bowing me down into a single note of consciousness. A few minutes later, I’m awake, making coffee, ready to face the afternoon. (I hate afternoons.)
The only problem is when my mind gets confused. As if as soon as I close my eyes it’s worry time, or inspiration time, and my imagination comes up with something interesting to consider. This happens at least three days a week, and either I rouse myself and write it down, or I tell myself it’s not worth troubling about—but that never works, I end up fighting myself, I just wake up further. It’s like the Mitch Hedberg joke: “I sit at my hotel at night, I think of something that's funny, then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen is too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain't funny.”
In The Raw and the Cooked, Jim Harrison says he prefers to nap in a bed, under the sheets, always nude, for at least an hour. Imagine! My naps feel so mechanical in comparison, so inclined to productivity—what does it say about my life if I’m resting wrong?
“The Nap” (1939) by José Sobral de Almada-Negreiros
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