Old Words

I woke up to read old words.

In the quiet of the night, under a dark sky, and far from twinkling stars, I open up an old journal. In 2009, I published my first online blog post, titled Random's Sunday. What it meant, I don't know. The sun was bright on that day. I sat in my backyard with my three pups, Tibby, Lokie, and little Peanut while they laid sunning themselves alongside the pool. The citrus trees in full bloom of Orange and Lime filled the air of sour and sweet. Southern California is a magical place - even more so is the sun above Palm Springs. 

I don't remember why I chose the online forum over trusted private paper journals. I recall a sense of urgency that handwritten notes no longer satisfied. At the time, I struggled financially along with everyone one else feeling the adverse effects of the explosive burst of the housing bubble crisis. A year in I was filled with a quiet frenzy. A paralyzed state. All I could do to survive is move about mechanically. Wake. Work. Sleep. Wake. Work. Sleep. Wake. Work. Sleep. Etc.

"Peanut, Tibby, Lokie" circa '08-'09
Photo Credit: ©deyanira.

In between, I'd eat some days, feed my dogs the other days. Made sure to have enough gas in my Volkswagen to get me to work a week at a time. Them there were dark days under a bright sun. My mechanical approach to life soon rusted and cracked. Wake late. Work daze. Sleep not. Wake late. Work daze. Sleep not. Wake late. Work daze. Sleep not. Etc.

Ten years later, I still write while you sleep.

"The Hobbit Writing" GIF

Night Writer (pronounced Knight Rider)

The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh 1889

Sleepless nights are nothing new. They've plagued me since childhood. At slumber parties, I typically was the last one to fall asleep. How did I know, you ask? Because the conversations would slowly come to an end amid snores and heavy breathing from a bunch of kids. At home, I'd lay awake in darkness. Not allowed to read or write into the early morning hours, I'd entertain myself by imagining all sorts of things, places, people, books I'd read, and movies I'd seen. As you can believe, and possibly even experience yourself - mornings were challenging to welcome.

Usually.

As an adult, mornings are not rough to greet, even on a few hours of sleep. There comes the point in the quite and still night when the mind awakens (in a state of delirium - I'm sure of it). There is no way anything productive could come out of that state. Yet, it was during those early hours in the cool of the night, under stars, and a bright moon did I write through salty tears. I used to keep a collection of everything I wrote in a box. All colors, and scraps of paper, cursive, print, pen, pencil, or crayon. 

The Scream
Edvard Munch, 1893 

I remember, the need to be surrounded by them - the words. Once Father brought a computer into the house I'd print them. Add clip art. Center the lines of text. Tape the pages on the walls of my bedroom. Before that, once I was sure what the poem is, or phrases or lines were, I'd rewrite them on a clean page and draw around them. 

If it wasn't the words - it was the nightmares keeping me awake. Well, the resistance to be in the position in which they'd happen - asleep, that is.

Dark dreams are the otherside of my tumultuous relationship with the night. Not able to recall with certainty my age, but I'm sure as a teenager and mid to late 20's sleep was disturbed regularly. That is, I'd fall asleep and wake up periodically (every hour) throughout the night with memories of broken images and strange feelings. 

At half past 4:00 in the morning. Not sure how to end this post. I'll describe the moment. A foster kitten rests on the bed.  Downton Abby plays in the background. Curtains drawn closed. Chickens sleeping in their coop.