Posts Tagged ‘sleepy’

And I Made It

January 16, 2017

Through the first weekend of the second semester.

Whew.

I was tired.

I am tired now.

Of course, I also have some adrenalin, which naturally seems to arrive at the times when I might wish to be winding down.

As opposed to the middle of my Trauma Class or towards then end of my Couples Therapy class when I was so sleepy I didn’t know if I was going to make it awake the rest of the day.

I was at that point when caffeine stops working and the tiredness was kicking in and it was touch and go and sort of woozy and sleepy and dreamy.

And then class ended and I got zipped up and a bit more energy as I got outside and out of the school and into the air.

I met with a few friends from my cohort at Reveille Coffee in the Castro, then on up to Firewood Cafe for dinner and fellowship and then doing the deal in a church basement up the road.

It was good.

It was really good.

I saw lots of folks that I don’t get to see often enough.

I got lots of hugs and asks for dinner and coffee.

I found out one friend and his mom are going to be in Paris at the same time that I am and we made plans to chat about that, I can be the tour guide he never got.

His first visit was supposed to be when I was living in Paris and we just missed each other.

I love touring people around Paris, makes me happy, especially those friends that don’t speak French, I love being of service, makes me feel useful.

So that was lovely.

And just the feeling.

To be seen, to be witnessed to take a moment and acknowledge love, struggle, surrender, doing the deal, showing up.

All of it.

And to get to be showing up for the rest of my life as well.

Like my new job tomorrow, I got a sweet text from the new mom asking after my weekend and also that I make a slight change to my schedule, which I am happy to accommodate, so that the oldest boy and I have a solitary date to go to the Academy of Science.

Super excited.

I’m a dork like that.

I love field trips.

And that I get to have the oldest on a solitary field trip means we get to do a little bonding.

I think that will be quite fun.

Plus it’ll be nice to ease back into the week and the new family and the new schedule.

Tomorrow is a holiday, not for me, but for the school, and so it’s nice to have something already planned and something to do outside of the home will be fun.

I’m happy I’ll also get another hour of sleep tomorrow.

I am ready for it.

I am grateful for the time in school this weekend, albeit feeling some stress about getting my practicum stuff together, I know it’s all falling into place.

I do need to make some proactive steps around it this up coming week and weekend and I’ll start in on my reading for the next semester here pretty quick.

Probably not tomorrow, but soon.

There’s a lot to cover in between the weekends of class.

I do like to give myself a little down time after a weekend of classes, but I also like having the reading on tap and completed for the next weekend and there’s so much that a little bit really has to be done on a pretty regular basis.

Plus.

One of my classes, Community Mental Health, I have to go out in the field and interview a clinician and gather data and do a lot of extra work, which, when the fuck am I going to do that as I’m working business hours and most community mental health programs are not open nights and weekends, but I get to work on that and ferret out some place I can go and talk to a clinician in a diverse community setting.

This is the semester of getting really prepared in the next steps for interning, getting into the community, starting to practice the craft that I have been learning, not just in school, but in my life.

I am absurdly grateful for this and I am astounded when I think about how it all came to be and where it is all going.

Well, I don’t know exactly where it is going, but it is exciting.

And it’s exciting to think that maybe, just maybe, my nanny days are coming to an end.

Oh.

I don’t think it will be for a few more years yet, but there is something really exciting about being with this new family and getting to have a job that could spell out longevity to match the end of my program and the work that I will have to do when I am interning and collecting my hours towards MFT licensure.

3,000.

Just a few.

I’m not there yet.

I am, however, happy to report that another few small steps have been successfully taken down that path.

I know that those little steps, one day at a time, add up so much faster than I could ever realize.

“Didn’t you just start this program?” She asked me with a hug, “and look at you now, already into your second year!”

It feels interminable at times, slow, and sticky and the long classes and the huge reading lists.

And then it seems like, wow, she was right, two years ago this time I had just sent off my application for the school.

Two years later I’m half way through the program and looking down the line.

A possible PhD in Psychology.

A career as a therapist.

A teacher in the community.

A helper.

A giver.

A worker amongst workers.

A friend.

All the things.

So grateful for it all.

So, very, very grateful.

Seriously.

Friday’s Class

September 2, 2016

Fuck Friday’s class.

Fuck reading for Friday’s class.

Fuck caring where Friday’s class is on campus.

Fuck Friday.

heh

Oh.

Fuck me.

Friday is tomorrow, is like in less than an hour and I’m wide awake.

Because.

I slept eleven hours last night.

ELEVEN.

Holy cats man.

I can’t remember the last time I slept eleven hours, without being intoxicated into doing so by way of a super bad hang over.

I mean.

Really.

The grey foggy morning helped.

The ringer turned off on my phone definitely helped.

The lack of sleep from being at Burning Man, the absolute clincher.

I have no recollection of what I blogged about last night, in fact, amazed that I blogged at all.

I woke up pretty groggy and pretty much ready to go back to bed after relieving the bladder.

I glanced with little care at my phone to see what time it was.

11:15 a.m.

Oh shit.

Getting up.

Getting up now.

Not that I couldn’t have slept longer, but it’s not the best idea for me to ruin my sleep pattern by staying in bed that late, I would have shot myself if I had slept past noon.

Again.

Not because I had anything pressing to do today.

Except get to the Mike Doughty Living Room Show that I just got back from attending.

So good.

I laughed a lot, clapped a lot, sang under my breath to the songs a lot, he was recording the show and since it was so small it felt utterly inappropriate to sing along to the music, even though I found myself mouthing along silently to many of the songs.

I also found myself in tears twice.

First, when he did an acoustic version of Sweet Dreams of Wichita.

Oh God.

That song, it still slays me.

I can still be transported right back to the house on Franklin Street where I lived with an ex-boyfriend and two other guys, two cats and a small hydroponic pot farm growing in the hall closet.  I can feel the wood floor underneath my feet, the summer night warmth on my body, and suddenly being transported by the music to another place, swaying in front of the double tape cassette of the boom box on the table in the living room.

I remember that was the year I got turned on to Jeff Buckley and to Soul Coughing, both of whom I got to see in concert.

Funny that.

Doughty talked about Jeff helping him move into a place in New York and eating a bucket of KFC in a U-haul at the show in regards to a question that was asked from the audience.

He, Mike, had a clear plastic jar that you could scribble down a question on a post it note and he would answer.

I asked what was a favorite line of poetry.

He recited the first bit of Xanadu by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Fucking swoon.

It was a great show.

I was able to chat with him afterward, we have some mutual friends, and I was shy as a kitten and perhaps, well, perhaps social anxiety is the best for me.

Even should I have wanted to have said what I wished I could have said, I really couldn’t have said more.

He did sign a birthday card for my friend who was at the show and, a friend who might be a bigger fan than I.

Might.

It felt good though.

So good.

All the things, the way the Universe connects, these places and parts of me, these heart shaped words pressing agains the back of my throat with a longing wild and slow burning to be seen.

And I was.

I feel that.

And I didn’t need an autograph for me, but one of my friends did buy me a poster as a thank you for getting the tickets to the show, so I got the signature.

It may be the only autographed thing I have.

It is enough to have the music autographed on my soul.

Stitched into the memories and the placing of who I am in this world.

Time stamped on my heart.

True Dreams of Wichita is not about Kansas for me.

It is about Iowa and it is also about running away from home when I was young and stupid and naive, God damn, so naive, but gratefully so, had I not been, I would not have had all those adventures.

And mis-adventures.

So many experiences and stories.

The soundtrack came with the music after.

I had never heard the sound track to my story until then.

There are memoirs I have written, years ago now, and they have these sound tracks.

The music that was there for me to lean into and the music that was on the stereo, the cd player, the record machine, the tape cassettes, the sound track to my young, raw life.

It is a good one.

And I realized.

Yes.

I will re-write some of the memoir, I will tighten it up, and I will also screen play it.

And some day, far, far, far away, but someday, because I can, because I will, because I manifest, I will have Doughty’s music be the soundtrack to the film.

Even if it’s small and indie, because the material is not mainstream.

But.

It will happen.

I had hoped, fantasized, come on, let’s be real, to kiss him, to linger at his knee, to look into his musician’s eyes and make woo woo faces.

Of course.

Real life being, well, real.

That did not happen.

But I saw an artist.

I was inspired.

I was moved.

And I got a hug.

“We meet at last,” he said with a smile.

I am seen.

I am recognized.

That, well, in my tiny, wee little way, was very special.

Thanks Mike.

Thank you for the music, for the memories, for the joy of seeing how far I have come from being that scared nineteen year old girl on the run from all the horrors of life, horrors I was so used to that I didn’t even know they were terrifying.

I got through, in no small part, by listening to you.

So.

To get to say thank you to an artist who has meant so much in my life felt very special, unique, privileged and it was just a plain honor to bear witness to the artistry of the man.

Especially with my friends.

Life is so good.

School starts tomorrow.

And though I will be sleepy.

I will be there.

Happy and replete with the soundtrack of wistful longing embossed upon my dreams.

Thanks again, Mike Doughty.

It was awesome.

Seriously.

 

Sleepy Time Girl

February 12, 2014

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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