Oops, I Did it Again!

I stopped writing, that is.
I wrote two poems last week.
Effortless.
Joy, I felt.
Headaches returned, tho.
Making and creating new relationships
     while fucking up others.
Yo-yo, anyone?

Long Ambients 2 by Moby semi-ease the mind.
Vibrations reverberate through my brain matter. 
Really, that's how Moby works his magic.

In the air, randomness floats.
I light candles to ward off whatever is out there.
I'm dreaming again in vivid and detailed images.
Nightmares?
Oh, there comin'!

It's all in the cards, you now.
Ask the right question.
Get what's coming to you.


-- (c)deyanira.

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The Leaves are Turning

I read today. At the hair salon. Under the heat-helmet contraption. Why is this worthy of a post, or merit delivery into your inbox, you ask? Well, I focused. Read every word without distraction. The ADHD-like and hyper-depressive mood swings I've experienced, since this time last year, are dissipating. Finally. Relief. Balance. Calm. 

Artist Unknown

My fingers are crossed. This week has the potential for bright productivity. More appropriate interactions with others. And, remember those interactions clearly, like what I said and who I said it to.

A girl can dream. So, I do.

I'd like to share, my kitten King Leonidas George Muffin, but we call him Roman for short, the First, is behaving oddly. He's low energy. A bit droopy. He drapes himself across my lap or my chest. If I move, he doesn't. This is the most noticeable change.  Months past, he'd jump and run away. He waits, instead lets me pick him up without protest. I have no explanation. Initially, I could say the foster cats affected his behavior. I could even go as far as Roman feeling a bit left out or pushed aside by the temporary arrangement.

I enjoy the extra cuddle time, but not if he's suffering from lethargy.  A visit to the fur-baby doctor is around the corner. 

Roman, circa 2017
(c)deyanira.

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.