Liberals on the radio ... Well, it's about damn time.
So Sleepy
I can't sleep. I tried to sleep. And I know I should be sleeping. It's not that I don't want to sleep. I'd pick my bed over a computer chair any day ... But I'm up, awake, and stringing words together like an old woman knitting yarn.
So isn't it funny that words are what got me into this mess in the first place ... Or am I the only person who wakes themselves up by talking too much in their sleep?
So isn't it funny that words are what got me into this mess in the first place ... Or am I the only person who wakes themselves up by talking too much in their sleep?
Automatic Off
Oh did I have a moment this morning ...
The Scene:
Keys dangling from front door lock. Afternoon rays spilling across the dining room floor. Sound of water splashing in a hollow basin. Me, dropping my purse on coffee table and kicking off shoes as slowly walking towards kitchen. Notice sound of water getting louder. Face screwed up in puzzled expression as turn corner to find water pouring full blast from faucet. Turn hot water handle to shut water off. Realizing left on all day from this morning when it was running prior to dishwasher load. Smack self in head as thought of wasted electricity and water express themselves as dollar signs in my mind. Come to conclusion that other than calling self idiot, nothing much to do about whats already been done. Decide incident is worthy of a blog notation and quickly jot done post before returning to kitchen to prepare tonights meal. (A meal one wouldn't want to burn due to lack of attention.)
The Scene:
Keys dangling from front door lock. Afternoon rays spilling across the dining room floor. Sound of water splashing in a hollow basin. Me, dropping my purse on coffee table and kicking off shoes as slowly walking towards kitchen. Notice sound of water getting louder. Face screwed up in puzzled expression as turn corner to find water pouring full blast from faucet. Turn hot water handle to shut water off. Realizing left on all day from this morning when it was running prior to dishwasher load. Smack self in head as thought of wasted electricity and water express themselves as dollar signs in my mind. Come to conclusion that other than calling self idiot, nothing much to do about whats already been done. Decide incident is worthy of a blog notation and quickly jot done post before returning to kitchen to prepare tonights meal. (A meal one wouldn't want to burn due to lack of attention.)
Angels On Earth
Did anyone else out there watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition last night?
Sweet Alice got to me.
After watching the dramatic changes Ty and the crew did to her house, as well as their efforts to help others in the neighborhood, I was more than ready to pack my bags and offer my own services to lend a hand. Skills or no skills, I wanted the chance to work beside a woman who cared about her community as much as her family.
And I cried, as did many on the show, as Alice broke down and gave thanks to God and to the show for coming into Watts, for giving her the home she never thought she'd be able to have without having to move far away from where she lived.
I can only hope that the good started in her neighborhood continues to grow and blossom with each passing day.
Sweet Alice got to me.
After watching the dramatic changes Ty and the crew did to her house, as well as their efforts to help others in the neighborhood, I was more than ready to pack my bags and offer my own services to lend a hand. Skills or no skills, I wanted the chance to work beside a woman who cared about her community as much as her family.
And I cried, as did many on the show, as Alice broke down and gave thanks to God and to the show for coming into Watts, for giving her the home she never thought she'd be able to have without having to move far away from where she lived.
I can only hope that the good started in her neighborhood continues to grow and blossom with each passing day.
Throw Open a Window
Ah the sweet taste of spring. The sound of the birds returned outside. The gentle rays of sun warming the window panes, brightening the living room.
Almost perfect.
Save for the fact that breathing is difficult with the full force return of seasonal allergies.
Which is not even to mention -and yes, I am whining now - that I've been down and out with "the sickness" - for lack of a better word to explain why no one seems to know what's wrong with me ... in the medical sense - for these past 2 months with a winter cold that refuses to go away.
So the mere thought of the two combining quite frankly scares me in ways that cannot be mentioned. Because I know they're sitting back laughing just waiting to kick my ass.
Almost perfect.
Save for the fact that breathing is difficult with the full force return of seasonal allergies.
Which is not even to mention -and yes, I am whining now - that I've been down and out with "the sickness" - for lack of a better word to explain why no one seems to know what's wrong with me ... in the medical sense - for these past 2 months with a winter cold that refuses to go away.
So the mere thought of the two combining quite frankly scares me in ways that cannot be mentioned. Because I know they're sitting back laughing just waiting to kick my ass.
Lunch Time Poet
I've been reading a lot of poetry this week. Earlier at lunch, I pulled out my book of Adrienne Rich and sat, feet tucked under, eating an orange as I turned the pages one by one. No one disturbed me, despite the fact that I had chosen the lunch room over the seclusion of my office and a closed door. This in itself a surprise as closed doors sometimes go unrespected and I hadn't much hope that people would be any kinder while I was reading my book out in the open.
But I read. Almost the whole hour, until I was overwhelmed by this feeling that I had to write something I had to say down. Never without pen and paper, words quickly sprawled across a colored index card, covering first the front and then squeezing their remainder on the back. And when I was done, I thought to myself this is good.
Thoughts on Index
Aside from a whisper all words seem like shouting.
It doesn't matter that he couldn't have known this.
You think he should have known, should have
known that a raised voice produced in you
a terror too big to name
Caused you to curl up fetal position
on your side, where the tears
leaked down into the old floorboards,
flooding the basement.
How could he have known ... Aside from the fact
that your hands were wrapped
around your ears and your mouth moved
with the screams welling in your throat.
But I read. Almost the whole hour, until I was overwhelmed by this feeling that I had to write something I had to say down. Never without pen and paper, words quickly sprawled across a colored index card, covering first the front and then squeezing their remainder on the back. And when I was done, I thought to myself this is good.
Thoughts on Index
Aside from a whisper all words seem like shouting.
It doesn't matter that he couldn't have known this.
You think he should have known, should have
known that a raised voice produced in you
a terror too big to name
Caused you to curl up fetal position
on your side, where the tears
leaked down into the old floorboards,
flooding the basement.
How could he have known ... Aside from the fact
that your hands were wrapped
around your ears and your mouth moved
with the screams welling in your throat.
Up In Smoke
Take back my brownie badge, I just about set the kitchen on fire tonight. Proving once again - much to my own personal embarrassment - that when it comes to baking skills, I'm much better off being in charge of licking the spoon.
And yet the sickening smell of baked - burnt - cookies is sticking to the walls. Which leaves me wondering just how long the house is going to stink like this, since KC refuses to leave the door open in the living room long enough for the smoke to filter out.
"Mom," she yells, strutting over to the door and slamming it shut, "It's winter ya know."
I raise my eyebrows, casting her a sideways glance, trying to keep a straight face in light of her over the top attitude.
"Do you smell the smoke?" I ask her, watching as she nods. "Do you really want to smell it all night?"
She shakes her head in a quick no to answer, sniffing at the air, as the light bulb clicks on inside her head.
"Awww Mom! You burnt the cookies again, didn't you?"
Guilty as charged ... Guilty as charged.
And yet the sickening smell of baked - burnt - cookies is sticking to the walls. Which leaves me wondering just how long the house is going to stink like this, since KC refuses to leave the door open in the living room long enough for the smoke to filter out.
"Mom," she yells, strutting over to the door and slamming it shut, "It's winter ya know."
I raise my eyebrows, casting her a sideways glance, trying to keep a straight face in light of her over the top attitude.
"Do you smell the smoke?" I ask her, watching as she nods. "Do you really want to smell it all night?"
She shakes her head in a quick no to answer, sniffing at the air, as the light bulb clicks on inside her head.
"Awww Mom! You burnt the cookies again, didn't you?"
Guilty as charged ... Guilty as charged.
A Recommendation
Two books down ... Both very good, though far different in their appeal.
However I would be remiss if I didn't pass along this title for all to read and experience for themselves. A beautifully written book ...
Digging Out by Katherine Leiner
However I would be remiss if I didn't pass along this title for all to read and experience for themselves. A beautifully written book ...
Digging Out by Katherine Leiner
Hearth and Home
How easy it is to slip back into an old routine ...
Helping KC with her homework, boiling water on the same old stove. Watching the way her small hands clutch the pencil tight within her grasp as she thinks, and then thinks some more before writing her answer down in looping letters. Standing in the kitchen, aware and yet separate from her task as meal preparation gets under way. Taking this small time to myself, to unwind, to relax for a moment without commotion.
Slipping back into the night like a pair of comfortable pajamas.
Helping KC with her homework, boiling water on the same old stove. Watching the way her small hands clutch the pencil tight within her grasp as she thinks, and then thinks some more before writing her answer down in looping letters. Standing in the kitchen, aware and yet separate from her task as meal preparation gets under way. Taking this small time to myself, to unwind, to relax for a moment without commotion.
Slipping back into the night like a pair of comfortable pajamas.
The Lights Are Always On
In the kitchen the teapot is whistling.
Because I cannot sleep, hot chocolate seemed like a good idea. Something warm and comforting, to help ease myself through these last few hours before dawn and the start of a new day.
I tried not to think a lot tonight.
Thinking itself, a destructive force of nature, when one has aimed the target completely at oneself. And so I read, pulling a brightly covered book from the Barnes and Noble bag - where I restocked my arsenal today, much to the chagrin of my debit card - and focused on being somebody else, in a life that bore no similarities to mine.
And for a few small hours, between reading, sleep and restless dreams, I managed to muddle through emotions too big for me to swallow. Reminding myself, as my mother is prone to do, that this too shall pass.
But knowing this hardly ever dulls the pain.
In my head, something that he said still lingers fresh, and I am reminded how cruel words can be, when they are sharpened by a masters swords. I sit here, stifling a bitter laugh. Wondering if the jaded girl inside me forgot that the innocent girl died too long ago to offer an excuse for the world of men, the things they say, the damage they do. How is it I could have forgot?
My bed is calling, my mug of cocoa empty now by my side, my body urges me to sleep, away from thoughts both good and bad. I will write myself a good night poem ...
Today is soon enough for tomorrow,
tomorrow's worries already at my door, a few hours of uninterrupted sleep a gift to myself before my brain demands to think once more.
Because I cannot sleep, hot chocolate seemed like a good idea. Something warm and comforting, to help ease myself through these last few hours before dawn and the start of a new day.
I tried not to think a lot tonight.
Thinking itself, a destructive force of nature, when one has aimed the target completely at oneself. And so I read, pulling a brightly covered book from the Barnes and Noble bag - where I restocked my arsenal today, much to the chagrin of my debit card - and focused on being somebody else, in a life that bore no similarities to mine.
And for a few small hours, between reading, sleep and restless dreams, I managed to muddle through emotions too big for me to swallow. Reminding myself, as my mother is prone to do, that this too shall pass.
But knowing this hardly ever dulls the pain.
In my head, something that he said still lingers fresh, and I am reminded how cruel words can be, when they are sharpened by a masters swords. I sit here, stifling a bitter laugh. Wondering if the jaded girl inside me forgot that the innocent girl died too long ago to offer an excuse for the world of men, the things they say, the damage they do. How is it I could have forgot?
My bed is calling, my mug of cocoa empty now by my side, my body urges me to sleep, away from thoughts both good and bad. I will write myself a good night poem ...
Today is soon enough for tomorrow,
tomorrow's worries already at my door, a few hours of uninterrupted sleep a gift to myself before my brain demands to think once more.
Somebody Else's Words
XXI
Adrienne Rich
The dark lintels, the blue and foreign stones
of the great round ripple by stone implements
the midsummer night light rising from beneath
the horizon - when I said "a cleft of light"
I meant this. And this is not Stonehenge
simply nor any place but the mind
casting back to where her solitude,
shared, could be chosen without lonliness,
not easily nor without pains to stake out
the cirlce, the heavy shadows, the great light.
I choose to be a figure in that light,
half-blotted by darkness, something moving
across that space, the color of stone
greeting the moon, yet more than stone:
a woman. I choose to walk here. And to draw this circle.
Adrienne Rich
The dark lintels, the blue and foreign stones
of the great round ripple by stone implements
the midsummer night light rising from beneath
the horizon - when I said "a cleft of light"
I meant this. And this is not Stonehenge
simply nor any place but the mind
casting back to where her solitude,
shared, could be chosen without lonliness,
not easily nor without pains to stake out
the cirlce, the heavy shadows, the great light.
I choose to be a figure in that light,
half-blotted by darkness, something moving
across that space, the color of stone
greeting the moon, yet more than stone:
a woman. I choose to walk here. And to draw this circle.
The Dreaming Hours
At two something in the morning, some things just become clear. Like no matter how much you might want to change the world, chances are you'll never really make all that much of an impression on the bigger slices of life, trading instead for the smaller moments of clarity that touch only a few.
Tonight I've learned about silence. Not an easy lesson for a girl who likes to talk too much, too loud and too often. But after getting the brush off once again, it became obvious - even to me - that it was time to step back and let the situation fumble around on its own without any further assistance from me.
So I went to bed, called it an early night and tried to focus my mind on anything else other than what's been bothering me today, and much to my surprise, exhuastion finally won out in the end. A much different reaction than what I am used to, since in the olden days, sleep would never have come to such a restless heart.
But to a girl, who is now quite sure that the problem needs to be fixed on the other side of the fence, sleep was the only choice for ending a very long day.
So I'm here, waiting with my own roll of duct tape to help fix whatever has gone wrong, because as I've been told, duct tape can fix most anything unexpected.
Tonight I've learned about silence. Not an easy lesson for a girl who likes to talk too much, too loud and too often. But after getting the brush off once again, it became obvious - even to me - that it was time to step back and let the situation fumble around on its own without any further assistance from me.
So I went to bed, called it an early night and tried to focus my mind on anything else other than what's been bothering me today, and much to my surprise, exhuastion finally won out in the end. A much different reaction than what I am used to, since in the olden days, sleep would never have come to such a restless heart.
But to a girl, who is now quite sure that the problem needs to be fixed on the other side of the fence, sleep was the only choice for ending a very long day.
So I'm here, waiting with my own roll of duct tape to help fix whatever has gone wrong, because as I've been told, duct tape can fix most anything unexpected.
To and Fro
You create this distance, as if you're holding up a hand that says stay right where you are. And I shrink back, waiting again for you to change your mind, allowing me near.
I am holding on, dangling with threads, waiting for a kind word.
I am holding on, dangling with threads, waiting for a kind word.
Winter Doldrums
A little backtracking, a little forward thinking ...
Creatively I am crushed.
A cold. A chronic cough. A fatigue that's settled itself deep into my bones. I'm addicted to cough drops and my bed at an early hour.
I want to feel like me again. I want to laugh until I cry. I want to make silly faces at people in parked cars and fly by buildings ablaze in the afternoon sun.
I want to remember the feel of summer on my face. The smell of fresh cut grass and the sound of mowers buzzing in the distance.
I want the snow to go away.
I want, I want, I want ...
Creatively I am crushed.
A cold. A chronic cough. A fatigue that's settled itself deep into my bones. I'm addicted to cough drops and my bed at an early hour.
I want to feel like me again. I want to laugh until I cry. I want to make silly faces at people in parked cars and fly by buildings ablaze in the afternoon sun.
I want to remember the feel of summer on my face. The smell of fresh cut grass and the sound of mowers buzzing in the distance.
I want the snow to go away.
I want, I want, I want ...
Absent Ringing
Dang it! Forgot to set the alarm last night and now look at me ... Wasting precious moments blogging about how late I'm running, as if that makes any sense at all.
But I don't give a fig. It's not like I'm really rushing around to get myself to work. Today, I'll get there when I get there. Besides there's all that new snow on the roads.
But I don't give a fig. It's not like I'm really rushing around to get myself to work. Today, I'll get there when I get there. Besides there's all that new snow on the roads.
Conditional
Main Entry: [1]con·di·tion·al
Pronunciation: k&n-'dish-n&l, -'di-sh&-n&l
Function: adjective
Date: 14th century
1 : subject to, implying, or dependent upon a condition {a conditional promise}
2 : expressing, containing, or implying a supposition {the conditional clause if he speaks}
3 a : true only for certain values of the variables or symbols involved {conditional equations} b : stating the case when one or more random variables are fixed or one or more events are known {conditional frequency distribution}
No ifs, no ands, no buts. No negative commentary and critique. Just once, stop worrying about what I could be and be happy about who I am.
The world doesn't have to be conditional. Why do you keep trying to tell me that it should be so?
Pronunciation: k&n-'dish-n&l, -'di-sh&-n&l
Function: adjective
Date: 14th century
1 : subject to, implying, or dependent upon a condition {a conditional promise}
2 : expressing, containing, or implying a supposition {the conditional clause if he speaks}
3 a : true only for certain values of the variables or symbols involved {conditional equations} b : stating the case when one or more random variables are fixed or one or more events are known {conditional frequency distribution}
No ifs, no ands, no buts. No negative commentary and critique. Just once, stop worrying about what I could be and be happy about who I am.
The world doesn't have to be conditional. Why do you keep trying to tell me that it should be so?
Springing Into Action
Hold on to your kitchen sinks people, it's cleaning night in this here household.
Armed with nothing more than pledge, windex and an occasionally tempermental vacuum, I promise to get a good start on the spring cleaning before that oh so important first day of spring can arrive.
Not that I really care about spring cleaning ... It just wouldn't do to have the boyfriend come over to a messy house. Besides, he still thinks I'm an organized person ...
Armed with nothing more than pledge, windex and an occasionally tempermental vacuum, I promise to get a good start on the spring cleaning before that oh so important first day of spring can arrive.
Not that I really care about spring cleaning ... It just wouldn't do to have the boyfriend come over to a messy house. Besides, he still thinks I'm an organized person ...
Conversations at Sleepy Time
Golden light streaming through the windows annouces the arrival of the sun this morning, and the fact that I should be just about anywhere other than in front of my computer.
But here I am. And from the looks of it, I'm not going anywhere for the next few minutes, despite the need to finish - or in my case, start - getting ready for work.
I am suffering from lack of sleep again. Other than the normal amount of times I wake up during the night, I added on an additional two more times of greeting the darkness after the sound of my own voice yelling pulled me away from sleep last night.
Which makes me wonder what my neighbors must be thinking, in the rare chance that they can hear me through the walls. Perhaps they say, "Oh ... That's just Stacey. Nothing unusual there." Or maybe they, like me, are just as tired of these nightly battles going on inside my head. In which case I'm sure that they've thought of sticking a pillow over my head a time or two.
I am ever so happy to annouce that today is indeed Thursday, which means the weekend is a mere 16 hours away. Hopefully this weekend will be just as good as last weekend, with the small hope that maybe it will be even better. After all, one must always strive to do something better than they did the day before.
I am to work.
But here I am. And from the looks of it, I'm not going anywhere for the next few minutes, despite the need to finish - or in my case, start - getting ready for work.
I am suffering from lack of sleep again. Other than the normal amount of times I wake up during the night, I added on an additional two more times of greeting the darkness after the sound of my own voice yelling pulled me away from sleep last night.
Which makes me wonder what my neighbors must be thinking, in the rare chance that they can hear me through the walls. Perhaps they say, "Oh ... That's just Stacey. Nothing unusual there." Or maybe they, like me, are just as tired of these nightly battles going on inside my head. In which case I'm sure that they've thought of sticking a pillow over my head a time or two.
I am ever so happy to annouce that today is indeed Thursday, which means the weekend is a mere 16 hours away. Hopefully this weekend will be just as good as last weekend, with the small hope that maybe it will be even better. After all, one must always strive to do something better than they did the day before.
I am to work.
Demand A Post
So damn tired lately, it's hard to think straight. Even harder to write a post that makes sense and doesn't sound like it's being said just to have something to fill all this empty space.
Sometimes it's just easier to talk then it is to type. The minute my hands touch the keyboard, it's like every single thought I had left to think, disappears as if it never was and the conversation in my head that was going just a mile a minute before slows down to something barely even resembling a crawl.
So to hell with it. This isn't about originality tonight. This is all about having a post to post. So much for being a literary genius.
Sometimes it's just easier to talk then it is to type. The minute my hands touch the keyboard, it's like every single thought I had left to think, disappears as if it never was and the conversation in my head that was going just a mile a minute before slows down to something barely even resembling a crawl.
So to hell with it. This isn't about originality tonight. This is all about having a post to post. So much for being a literary genius.
Story Time (By KC)
Once there was a leprechaun named Leo.
One day Leo was going to his friends house. His friends name is Louie.
Leo you are invited to my birthday party, said Louie. The next day Leo found a pot of gold at Louie's house. Leo took some gold so he could buy a present for Louie.
Leo went to the store and bought a present for Louie.The next day Leo gave Louie his present. Leo put the rest of the gold in the pot so Louie wouldn't find no gold in the pot.
Hey, said Louie's mother as she brought Leo to the living room, Leo needs to tell you something.
Louie I took some gold from you.
That's ok you can make it up to me later.
The end
By KC
One day Leo was going to his friends house. His friends name is Louie.
Leo you are invited to my birthday party, said Louie. The next day Leo found a pot of gold at Louie's house. Leo took some gold so he could buy a present for Louie.
Leo went to the store and bought a present for Louie.The next day Leo gave Louie his present. Leo put the rest of the gold in the pot so Louie wouldn't find no gold in the pot.
Hey, said Louie's mother as she brought Leo to the living room, Leo needs to tell you something.
Louie I took some gold from you.
That's ok you can make it up to me later.
The end
By KC
Counter Clockwise
Good morning Sunday morning, pancakes instead of Happy French Toast Day morning by request of KC, little Linda Blair in training.
Talk about needing an exorcist. The minor child was in rare form last night, going overboard on the dramatics in the middle of WalMart and subsequently the car ride home.
Had in not been for Sean, stifling laughter in the front seat, I may not have handled the situation with as much ... hmmm ... I'll say grace, as I did. But being told by your eight year old daughter that she hates you - all because you wouldn't buy her Spy Kids 3D on DVD - is rather hard on the heart, even when you know she doesn't really mean it. Because some words, no matter how much you might not really mean them, can't be taken back once said.
Talk about needing an exorcist. The minor child was in rare form last night, going overboard on the dramatics in the middle of WalMart and subsequently the car ride home.
Had in not been for Sean, stifling laughter in the front seat, I may not have handled the situation with as much ... hmmm ... I'll say grace, as I did. But being told by your eight year old daughter that she hates you - all because you wouldn't buy her Spy Kids 3D on DVD - is rather hard on the heart, even when you know she doesn't really mean it. Because some words, no matter how much you might not really mean them, can't be taken back once said.
Nightmare Movies In My Brain
I'm not going back to sleep. Not now, not ever, not tonight. If I have to drink a hundred thousand mochachinos, there is absolutely no way in Hecla, my head is touching another pillow and falling for that old trick again.
I woke up in a panic, my body contorted into the many shapes of a pretzel, with pillows strewn across the room from here to there. I sat straight up, eyes blinking against the darkness, fumbling for the light beside the bed, breathing a sigh of relief once it was on.
For a moment, I thought I could push the dream from my mind and go back to bed, easing myself back - light still on - against the pillows, dragging my blankets back up to meet my face. I closed my eyes, and was almost falling back into sleep when I heard an ear splitting crash, like the sound of someone taking a crow bar to the back door, the sound of splitting wood.
I jumped up. Alert. And made up my mind in an instant not to grab the baseball bat I have hidden behind my bed. It was after all probably nothing but my overactive imagination and the ripples of a bad dream still lingering on my mind.
But I came downstairs, hugging the railing as I tread softly on the carpet, quickly hitting on the living room light and accessing - as I had expected - that the house was indeed secure, save for my own paranoia.
Still I can't go back to bed. If I go back to bed, the dream will only continue, playing itself out until it's finished and I'm not willing to watch it through the end. The clarity of what I remember is enough to make me stay up and blog all night. Or perhaps do that cleaning I should have done earlier.
Still I have found that one thing always helps to rid myself of a bad dream. Writing it down and wrestling with the demons always seems to work for getting them out of my head. So without further adieu, welcome to my subconscious.
*Reader beware: Not all scenes are intended for younger viewers. If you have a history of inheriting nightmares, please for your own protection discontinue reading immediately. *
Brenda and I were driving. Large buildings flanked the sides of the highway as spider veins of traffic scattered off in all directions. We were traveling West. Everyone seemed to be doing circles around us as we crept along at a snails pace, talking and laughing as I drove. But whirring lights behind us interrupted the whole scene, forcing us to pull over to the side of the road.
A young officer pulled up. "Do you know how fast you were going Miss?"
"36," I told him.
"That's a bit fast for these parts don't you think?" he questioned.
I bit my lip, nervous. "I suppose it might be Officer, but I didn't mean to be speeding."
The young officer smiled, pointing to his partner who was walking around our car, notepad pulled out, his pen making quick flicks across the paper.
"If it were up to me, I wouldn't give you a ticket. Just a warning. But you've got to deal with Sam."
Sam walked over to the window, an older man, gray around the temples, his face stern and showing no sign of empathy.
"I'm going to let you go with just a warning. People in these here parts don't like people who drive like their fresh off the NY Stock Exchange. It might do you well to remember that a lead foot won't land you anywhere except a prison yard with a high fence and a serious lack of scenery. Perhaps it wouldn't be remiss if you girls turned in for the night and got some rest before continuing your little road trip. If I had to offer my opinion, I'd say you're both looking a little tired and weary from the road."
And so we did. We took his advice, followed the highway West again to the nearest hotel and booked two rooms both on the second floor. Exhuasted we opened our doors, giving each other a quick backwards glance.
"See you at checkout," I said.
"See you at checkout," Brenda replied.
The next morning, I wasn't anywhere near to being packed but didn't want to admit that to Brenda who would hold that against me for being late. So instead, I bribed the front office girl to pack my belongings and bring them down to the car for me, while I enjoyed a nice mug of cocoa and a warm continental bagel in the perky downstairs morning room.
Suddenly, breaking the stillness of the morning, came the sounds of rapid gunfire. Spilling my cocoa on the table in front of me, I pushed back against the wall, shrinking behind the giant sized potted plant in the corner as a group of military looking men swarmed from the elevators, spilling out into the lobby before making a mass exitus.
I rushed upstairs, eager to find Brenda. But she was nowhere to be found. My room however was ajar. Slowly pushing the door open, I was greeted with a grizzly sight. The poor clerk whom I had asked to pack my luggage, crumpled over in a bloody mess on the bedroom floor. I whimpered in panic, turning to run.
Outside the parking lot was still swarming with men in forest green camo. I tried walking to my car as if it were any other normal day, an even pace and my head held high, my keys closed in my crushing grasp.
The murmurs began to grow behind me, raising my uneasyness. My car too far away, I quickly opted to borrow a slightly newer model SUV, keys dangling from the ignition like a welcome screen.
By this time, the men around me knew I was trouble, their snarling faces pressed up against the windows, as I held the locking mechanism down and fired up the engine, pealing out in a cloud of dust.
The SUV and I put petal to the metal and tore out of there like there was no tomorrow, climbing up a steep hill, towards an old run down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, just one small crabapple tree in the side yard.
We'll be safe here I thought to myself, pulling out my son and daughter from the vehicle, holding onto their small hands as we approached the rickety old house.
Inside it was dimly lit, little shards of light seeming spectral as they hit the dust floating in midair. We maneuvered around the room carefully, picking our way throug the debris that covered the floors. Upstairs a voice whispered in my head, as I reached out to find a bannister pressed firmly beneath my palm. Gently urging them on, I ushered the children quickly upstairs.
It was like one giant room. Little nooks and crannies here and there, but for the most part one giant room with a walk-in closet.
"Stay here," I said to my son and daughter, pointing to a worn red couch pressed against the wall. I walked the room, familiarizing myself with its dimensions, coming back only when I was sure I had memorized them in every detail.
"Where's your sister?" I whispered, noticing one empty spot on the couch where I had left them.
"She's in there," pointed my son, towards a door I hadn't seen before.
"You stay here," I said to him sternly, planting a kiss on his forehead. "I'm going to get your sister. I'll be right back."
But when I opened the door, there was nothing underneath my feet other than a free fall down into nothing.
I fell and fell and fell until without any warning I made a splash. And then I was sinking. Down, down, and down, until I was at the very bottom of whatever deep dark place had felled me.
Terrified and cold, it took me more than a few minutes to realize I was breathing underwater and having absolutely no problem doing so. Amazed and yet still very scared, I began swimming in the darkness, my hands reaching blindly for any shape that might resemble my daughter.
But it was the voices I heard that gave me hope. Following their sounds, I was overjoyed to find my daughter laughing in joy with her clammy companions. A weird species, kind of like a cross between a clam, a cow and a walrus. But they were nice, and had protected my child from harm thereby earning my trust.
"Be careful," they warned me. "He'll know you're here."
"Who is he and why will he know?" I wanted to ask, but there was no time. Pocket light from above was penetrating the darkness and I knew it must be my son with a flashlight calling me back up into the unknown.
Long story short because my brain is beginning to crash and this dream needs to be concluded is this ... Upstairs was waiting an evil scientist who was trying to capture my son because he could speak believable Spanish and painted like Picasso, so that he could use his paiting talents to take over the world.
My husband, who was one of the men in the hotel lobby shooting down the innocent, tried to make me believe that he was on my side, all the while planning on double crossing me with the evil mad scientist.
But thanks to my Protector - a man I met on the swim back up - and his ability to astral project all of us were saved from the cluches if evil. And of course, had I finished the dream probably would have lived happily ever after ...
So there you have it. It's all there and pretty scary, but not as scary as it was when I first woke up ...
So maybe it's okay to try and go back to sleep now.
I woke up in a panic, my body contorted into the many shapes of a pretzel, with pillows strewn across the room from here to there. I sat straight up, eyes blinking against the darkness, fumbling for the light beside the bed, breathing a sigh of relief once it was on.
For a moment, I thought I could push the dream from my mind and go back to bed, easing myself back - light still on - against the pillows, dragging my blankets back up to meet my face. I closed my eyes, and was almost falling back into sleep when I heard an ear splitting crash, like the sound of someone taking a crow bar to the back door, the sound of splitting wood.
I jumped up. Alert. And made up my mind in an instant not to grab the baseball bat I have hidden behind my bed. It was after all probably nothing but my overactive imagination and the ripples of a bad dream still lingering on my mind.
But I came downstairs, hugging the railing as I tread softly on the carpet, quickly hitting on the living room light and accessing - as I had expected - that the house was indeed secure, save for my own paranoia.
Still I can't go back to bed. If I go back to bed, the dream will only continue, playing itself out until it's finished and I'm not willing to watch it through the end. The clarity of what I remember is enough to make me stay up and blog all night. Or perhaps do that cleaning I should have done earlier.
Still I have found that one thing always helps to rid myself of a bad dream. Writing it down and wrestling with the demons always seems to work for getting them out of my head. So without further adieu, welcome to my subconscious.
*Reader beware: Not all scenes are intended for younger viewers. If you have a history of inheriting nightmares, please for your own protection discontinue reading immediately. *
Brenda and I were driving. Large buildings flanked the sides of the highway as spider veins of traffic scattered off in all directions. We were traveling West. Everyone seemed to be doing circles around us as we crept along at a snails pace, talking and laughing as I drove. But whirring lights behind us interrupted the whole scene, forcing us to pull over to the side of the road.
A young officer pulled up. "Do you know how fast you were going Miss?"
"36," I told him.
"That's a bit fast for these parts don't you think?" he questioned.
I bit my lip, nervous. "I suppose it might be Officer, but I didn't mean to be speeding."
The young officer smiled, pointing to his partner who was walking around our car, notepad pulled out, his pen making quick flicks across the paper.
"If it were up to me, I wouldn't give you a ticket. Just a warning. But you've got to deal with Sam."
Sam walked over to the window, an older man, gray around the temples, his face stern and showing no sign of empathy.
"I'm going to let you go with just a warning. People in these here parts don't like people who drive like their fresh off the NY Stock Exchange. It might do you well to remember that a lead foot won't land you anywhere except a prison yard with a high fence and a serious lack of scenery. Perhaps it wouldn't be remiss if you girls turned in for the night and got some rest before continuing your little road trip. If I had to offer my opinion, I'd say you're both looking a little tired and weary from the road."
And so we did. We took his advice, followed the highway West again to the nearest hotel and booked two rooms both on the second floor. Exhuasted we opened our doors, giving each other a quick backwards glance.
"See you at checkout," I said.
"See you at checkout," Brenda replied.
The next morning, I wasn't anywhere near to being packed but didn't want to admit that to Brenda who would hold that against me for being late. So instead, I bribed the front office girl to pack my belongings and bring them down to the car for me, while I enjoyed a nice mug of cocoa and a warm continental bagel in the perky downstairs morning room.
Suddenly, breaking the stillness of the morning, came the sounds of rapid gunfire. Spilling my cocoa on the table in front of me, I pushed back against the wall, shrinking behind the giant sized potted plant in the corner as a group of military looking men swarmed from the elevators, spilling out into the lobby before making a mass exitus.
I rushed upstairs, eager to find Brenda. But she was nowhere to be found. My room however was ajar. Slowly pushing the door open, I was greeted with a grizzly sight. The poor clerk whom I had asked to pack my luggage, crumpled over in a bloody mess on the bedroom floor. I whimpered in panic, turning to run.
Outside the parking lot was still swarming with men in forest green camo. I tried walking to my car as if it were any other normal day, an even pace and my head held high, my keys closed in my crushing grasp.
The murmurs began to grow behind me, raising my uneasyness. My car too far away, I quickly opted to borrow a slightly newer model SUV, keys dangling from the ignition like a welcome screen.
By this time, the men around me knew I was trouble, their snarling faces pressed up against the windows, as I held the locking mechanism down and fired up the engine, pealing out in a cloud of dust.
The SUV and I put petal to the metal and tore out of there like there was no tomorrow, climbing up a steep hill, towards an old run down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, just one small crabapple tree in the side yard.
We'll be safe here I thought to myself, pulling out my son and daughter from the vehicle, holding onto their small hands as we approached the rickety old house.
Inside it was dimly lit, little shards of light seeming spectral as they hit the dust floating in midair. We maneuvered around the room carefully, picking our way throug the debris that covered the floors. Upstairs a voice whispered in my head, as I reached out to find a bannister pressed firmly beneath my palm. Gently urging them on, I ushered the children quickly upstairs.
It was like one giant room. Little nooks and crannies here and there, but for the most part one giant room with a walk-in closet.
"Stay here," I said to my son and daughter, pointing to a worn red couch pressed against the wall. I walked the room, familiarizing myself with its dimensions, coming back only when I was sure I had memorized them in every detail.
"Where's your sister?" I whispered, noticing one empty spot on the couch where I had left them.
"She's in there," pointed my son, towards a door I hadn't seen before.
"You stay here," I said to him sternly, planting a kiss on his forehead. "I'm going to get your sister. I'll be right back."
But when I opened the door, there was nothing underneath my feet other than a free fall down into nothing.
I fell and fell and fell until without any warning I made a splash. And then I was sinking. Down, down, and down, until I was at the very bottom of whatever deep dark place had felled me.
Terrified and cold, it took me more than a few minutes to realize I was breathing underwater and having absolutely no problem doing so. Amazed and yet still very scared, I began swimming in the darkness, my hands reaching blindly for any shape that might resemble my daughter.
But it was the voices I heard that gave me hope. Following their sounds, I was overjoyed to find my daughter laughing in joy with her clammy companions. A weird species, kind of like a cross between a clam, a cow and a walrus. But they were nice, and had protected my child from harm thereby earning my trust.
"Be careful," they warned me. "He'll know you're here."
"Who is he and why will he know?" I wanted to ask, but there was no time. Pocket light from above was penetrating the darkness and I knew it must be my son with a flashlight calling me back up into the unknown.
Long story short because my brain is beginning to crash and this dream needs to be concluded is this ... Upstairs was waiting an evil scientist who was trying to capture my son because he could speak believable Spanish and painted like Picasso, so that he could use his paiting talents to take over the world.
My husband, who was one of the men in the hotel lobby shooting down the innocent, tried to make me believe that he was on my side, all the while planning on double crossing me with the evil mad scientist.
But thanks to my Protector - a man I met on the swim back up - and his ability to astral project all of us were saved from the cluches if evil. And of course, had I finished the dream probably would have lived happily ever after ...
So there you have it. It's all there and pretty scary, but not as scary as it was when I first woke up ...
So maybe it's okay to try and go back to sleep now.
Dragging
KC is singing terribly off key, an original song entitled "Mom Won't Help Me With My Homework Because She's Writing On Her Blog" ...
I wonder if perhaps I should take this as a sign that I have a problem or just enroll the girl in singing lessons before any further damage can be done to my eardrums.
I am in full avoidance however of most everything tonight. The main thing being the current status of my house. Disorganized and messy, the clutter seems to have come from nowhere taking over every little nook and cranny. And I'm not just talking about dusting the angels off.
But alas, I have absolutely no inner motivation to get the job done, let alone started.
I wonder how certain people would feel about blindfolds while visiting.
Oy.
I wonder if perhaps I should take this as a sign that I have a problem or just enroll the girl in singing lessons before any further damage can be done to my eardrums.
I am in full avoidance however of most everything tonight. The main thing being the current status of my house. Disorganized and messy, the clutter seems to have come from nowhere taking over every little nook and cranny. And I'm not just talking about dusting the angels off.
But alas, I have absolutely no inner motivation to get the job done, let alone started.
I wonder how certain people would feel about blindfolds while visiting.
Oy.
Rise and Shine
6 a.m. alarm
Head buried in my pillow, I fumbled around in the darkness trying to locate the snooze button on my new alarm clock, as the insistent shrill ring echoed about the room.
Sleep. Need more. I thought to myself, not bothering to open my eyes, pulling the duvet cover up closer to my face, snuggling back into sleep.
But then a little meow, the touch of soft fur against my hand nudging me awake for attention. The kind of cuteness that you can't ignore.
"Good morning Emma," I said, breaking the stillness of the house. "Ready for breakfast already?" I asked, waiting for a moment as if she would answer. "Come on then, let's go."
Head buried in my pillow, I fumbled around in the darkness trying to locate the snooze button on my new alarm clock, as the insistent shrill ring echoed about the room.
Sleep. Need more. I thought to myself, not bothering to open my eyes, pulling the duvet cover up closer to my face, snuggling back into sleep.
But then a little meow, the touch of soft fur against my hand nudging me awake for attention. The kind of cuteness that you can't ignore.
"Good morning Emma," I said, breaking the stillness of the house. "Ready for breakfast already?" I asked, waiting for a moment as if she would answer. "Come on then, let's go."
Quality Time
Deciding to have a quiet night, KC and I are going to spend the rest of the evening camped out on the living room floor watching Disney movies, under a mountain of blankets since it's freezing cold.
And for tonight, everything else will keep.
And for tonight, everything else will keep.
A Quarter to Call
Frame of mind this morning is not very good.
And unfortunately for me, the one person who could clear up this little bit of confusion, has already started his day hours and hours ago, with no way of being contacted until much later on today.
So if you happen to see him today or happen to be him reading this wondering why I didn't just send you an email - I did last night, only to unsend it this morning - give me a call. I can't make it any easier than that.
And unfortunately for me, the one person who could clear up this little bit of confusion, has already started his day hours and hours ago, with no way of being contacted until much later on today.
So if you happen to see him today or happen to be him reading this wondering why I didn't just send you an email - I did last night, only to unsend it this morning - give me a call. I can't make it any easier than that.
Personal Adaptation
When I was a little girl, I used to play in the woods for hours. I made tree houses and imaginary kingdoms where I was Queen to a group of royal subjects and ruled the world below. I pretended I was an Indian princess, sticking feathers in my brown hair, and tried to walk soundlessly in my moccasin's over the autumn leaves and green growing moss.
I wrote bad poetry in a pocket sized notebook and told stories about the kind of girl I wished I could be. Always pretending I was much braver than I actually was, never admitting to the things that scared me. And I was scared of so many things.
Like most little girls, I was scared of the dark and all the things that existed when there was no light. Shirts turned to monsters, and beneath the bed there was an underworld of evil things, all waiting for the moment when it was beyond my control to keep my eyes open any longer.
But my fear of the dark was nothing compared to my need for acceptance.
Somewhere along the way I came to the conclusion that in order to be loved, I had to earn love. I had to be the best daughter, the straight A student, the responsible friend. A chameleon able to adapt to any situation.
And it was so easy. Easy to change myself into something that someone else could agree with. Easy to simply shut my mouth and forget for a moment I had opinions of my own. Easy to be anyone other than who I was. A girl whose heart was easily broken at the slightest hint of a cruel word or a swift blow.
Because what I never wanted anyone to know was just how soft a heart I had. How quickly I could misjudge a situation, automatically assuming the hurt, rather than think that there could be a different conclusion to my quick synopsis. Because even though I'll question a scenario in my mind a thousand times and then a thousand times again, I'm loathe to come right out and ask the direct question. The question whose answer can sometimes be the one you don't want to hear.
Perhaps a public service advisory would be in order ... Nice girl with tender heart, tread carefully, try not to bruise.
I wrote bad poetry in a pocket sized notebook and told stories about the kind of girl I wished I could be. Always pretending I was much braver than I actually was, never admitting to the things that scared me. And I was scared of so many things.
Like most little girls, I was scared of the dark and all the things that existed when there was no light. Shirts turned to monsters, and beneath the bed there was an underworld of evil things, all waiting for the moment when it was beyond my control to keep my eyes open any longer.
But my fear of the dark was nothing compared to my need for acceptance.
Somewhere along the way I came to the conclusion that in order to be loved, I had to earn love. I had to be the best daughter, the straight A student, the responsible friend. A chameleon able to adapt to any situation.
And it was so easy. Easy to change myself into something that someone else could agree with. Easy to simply shut my mouth and forget for a moment I had opinions of my own. Easy to be anyone other than who I was. A girl whose heart was easily broken at the slightest hint of a cruel word or a swift blow.
Because what I never wanted anyone to know was just how soft a heart I had. How quickly I could misjudge a situation, automatically assuming the hurt, rather than think that there could be a different conclusion to my quick synopsis. Because even though I'll question a scenario in my mind a thousand times and then a thousand times again, I'm loathe to come right out and ask the direct question. The question whose answer can sometimes be the one you don't want to hear.
Perhaps a public service advisory would be in order ... Nice girl with tender heart, tread carefully, try not to bruise.
