Sleepy Time Girl

by

I have no idea why so tired.

Just is.

The herbal tea is not helping, but at 8:45 p.m. at night I am not about to go snorgle up some caffeine, as much as it appeals, I don’t want to have monkey mind as I try to fall asleep.

Which might be why I am tired tonight.

That or possibly that my littlest guy today only napped 40 minutes and was so active and engaged and boy that I am just wore out.

Not got a thing that is insightful to say or think or be.

I just want to blog and go watch True Detective.

I downloaded it from Sunday, but haven’t finished watching the latest episode.

It is damn skippy good.

I may possibly have a cold as well, but I fail to acknowledge you cold, you are dead to me, there is no spoon, I tell you.

Just got off a chat with a friend back in Wisconsin who was wondering when I was going to be coming for a visit and I was editing his short story for him while getting some messages and was just smacked by the tired.

I think I was pretty nice about it.

He’s a great writer, and it’s a privilege to be asked to help someone out.

I have had a lot of people help me out with my writing.

Even when I have not got clue one how to do it or where to go with it, or why I am still doing.

Oh, habit, I suppose.

But there is more to it than that.

I do generally find my way to some sort of insight or idea, sometimes I will be able to work out something that may be in the back of my mind and I have to write it out before it will reveal itself.

Sometimes, like tonight, I have not a clue one what I am going to write about.

I could write about waking up last night, smiling (I wake up more and more smiling, that suggestion really is an interesting one, often it feels like there is an alien skin mask over my face, it doesn’t feel like a smile, it feels like a grimace, but hey, I will try just about anything once), and looking out the window of the door, which though screened with a bamboo roll up curtain, at night without lights on, the light comes in.

I saw the moon, swathed with clouds, just dropping over the edge of the houses behind the yard and I could envision, in that moment, the path of moon light on the ocean and I felt compelled to get up and walk down to the beach.

I didn’t.

I went pee and crawled back into bed.

But some day, I think I may, just wake up, see that moon as it descends its final bow for the evening into the black inky water.

Who’s that girl?

And why is she up at this hour of the night?

I see myself slipping out of the house, shrouded in late evening mist, walking barefoot to the sea.

That is total romantic fantasy.

Nothing is getting me up out of bed at some wee hour of the morning to walk barefoot down to the ocean.

I mean no guy is that cute.

I drifted back off to sleep, though, thinking about that moon and the sea and being adrift in the white light prickling over the landscape.

I could write about sitting in a chair and drifting in and out while waiting for the hour to go by and being nearly asleep, nodding close, when I heard, “there is a solution” so loud and clear and ringing that I snapped awake.

I mean, I heard nothing else, nothing to preface it, nothing to follow it.

It was like red neon light in my brain, the way the words sounded, like a marquee billboard on an old movie theater in a small town square at night, see I’m back to wandering the streets at night by myself.

I look up to see red letters saying that out loud in all caps on a white marquee board.

The movie theater would smell like stale popcorn and the tile mosaic of the floor would shimmer in the light of the moon and I would drift by.

Or I could write about how I felt absolutely nothing.

NOTHING.

When riding my bicycle home tonight.

I did not feel uncomfortable, I did not feel hurried, I felt no pricking of my thumbs to slow my roll or to watch out for feral parking crazies looking for a spot to swoop across the lanes of traffic.

It was the mellowest ride home I have had in weeks.

It was so silent in my brain, I contemplated the movement of my legs propelling the crank forward, the muscles in my legs expanding and contracting, the perfect circle of spinning and the slide of my body through the cool air.

I realized about the time that I had gotten to 17th or so that I had not had one weird feeling or awkward moment.

I laughed in my head and thought, this, then is when it happens.

But it doesn’t.

There is no spoon.

I could write about how I don’t care if I have a boyfriend or not after the exhausting overheard conversation I heard between a man and woman arguing as they walked down the street.

Jesus.

I am tired from the snippet I heard.

Too tired to even remember what they were saying, except that it was inane and full of contrary logic.

I could write about so many things, shoes and ships, sealing wax, cabbages, and kings.

I won’t though.

I am just about wrote out.

Still tired and ready to finish my episode of True Detective.

Check back with me tomorrow for a more scintillating episode of “Carmen”.

I will be well rested.

Promise.

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