My eyes are burning. I'd hoped to finish my book tonight, but I think I've been out of social energy for two weeks, and I'm beginning to crash a little - a lot - and I simply cannot sleep. Tonight was my night for poetry, a little more story writing, finishing my book, doing some drawing, and getting to bed at a reasonable hour, but I'm going to have to settle for just one, and I can't decide which. My body can't even remember the last night I had time to myself for more than thirty minutes before sleeping (except for insomnia, and that doesn't count). Tonight was going to be my night, but I'm crashing hard.
I guess this is only delaying my decision time.
My hands are cold, eternally so
I'm flipping pages, but no longer feel
my thumbs, and my feet
wrapped in countless layers are numb
and I'm using these cold devices
to warm my freezing heart.
no, I'll just hit sleep like a battering ram and pray.
some days, introversion is my enemy
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Friday, March 21, 2014
Friday, November 15, 2013
Goodnight Week
Nothing like friends, cider, a movie (Wes Anderson's Life Aquatic), a group dinner, rest after a week's work - not that I got any novel writing done. Everyone needs a Sabbath.
It's more difficult maintaining a high level of reading when trying to write 5-10 pages each night, or even every other night; it's more difficult balancing friends when locking myself into my room, slaving over a notebook, transcribing ideas and paragraphs from my quick, chicken-scratch onto the computer; difficult managing sleep when my best ideas often arrive late at night; difficult remembering to call people back, or text, once I've stepped into my writing zone.
I know the worth, at the end - this is my third such novel. But the duration is frightening, exhausting, intense, difficult, lovely. When do I read? My mealtimes are erratic, my sleep schedule wonky, and my additional writing suffers from lack of ingenuity (thus). Still, every night I open a book, and breathe in words that are not mine: Mary Oliver, Orson Scott Card, Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Keats, TS Eliot, Genesis, Job, Faust my companions this month, and more, as they guide me through writing, and dreaming.
Thank you, friends, for supporting me, carrying me in your thoughts, even if (when) I disappear.
A strange season, the tulips rise again, then fall -
it's autumn, so why, sunflowers,
do you lift your heads
greeting this sun?
oh, yellow faces, I whispered goodbye
long, long ago
you fled south with birds and song, leaving
grey skies, low and lovely
my heart torn in twain
My eyes are drooping, and it's not yet even eleven. Another poem, another piece unfinished for the time. Tomorrow will be a busy day, a creative day, a writing day. Friends, I love you and pray for each of you, even when I cannot see you. I miss you each moment.
Sleep well, dream well, be.
Goodnight Moon.
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
From Sleeping in the Forest
© Mary Oliver
It's more difficult maintaining a high level of reading when trying to write 5-10 pages each night, or even every other night; it's more difficult balancing friends when locking myself into my room, slaving over a notebook, transcribing ideas and paragraphs from my quick, chicken-scratch onto the computer; difficult managing sleep when my best ideas often arrive late at night; difficult remembering to call people back, or text, once I've stepped into my writing zone.
I know the worth, at the end - this is my third such novel. But the duration is frightening, exhausting, intense, difficult, lovely. When do I read? My mealtimes are erratic, my sleep schedule wonky, and my additional writing suffers from lack of ingenuity (thus). Still, every night I open a book, and breathe in words that are not mine: Mary Oliver, Orson Scott Card, Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Keats, TS Eliot, Genesis, Job, Faust my companions this month, and more, as they guide me through writing, and dreaming.
Thank you, friends, for supporting me, carrying me in your thoughts, even if (when) I disappear.
A strange season, the tulips rise again, then fall -
it's autumn, so why, sunflowers,
do you lift your heads
greeting this sun?
oh, yellow faces, I whispered goodbye
long, long ago
you fled south with birds and song, leaving
grey skies, low and lovely
my heart torn in twain
My eyes are drooping, and it's not yet even eleven. Another poem, another piece unfinished for the time. Tomorrow will be a busy day, a creative day, a writing day. Friends, I love you and pray for each of you, even when I cannot see you. I miss you each moment.
Sleep well, dream well, be.
Goodnight Moon.
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
From Sleeping in the Forest
© Mary Oliver
Monday, October 14, 2013
Wherein I write embarrassing poems in my sleep...
... and make up for it by finishing with legitimate poetry.
August is a fickle season, a human season. Summer simmers and winter shivers, and spring's a night owl in the morning. Fall is that troubled teen: graceful, violently shifting, whimsical, moody, a vibrant, fragile life. When the tears of trees trouble the earth in crimson sheets and cotton clouds sheepishly graze the sky, and the birds skedaddle south or wriggle deeper into their nests, the cork of fall from summer severs us, and our lives flare into a temper of pigments. We are a glass beauty, angelic, translucent, brittle as first frost beneath smoky stars. We are fall.
At some point in my life, I developed a habit of waking in the cradle of night for a bathroom break. During these instances, I write down whatever is on my mind, briefly, on my phone. At first, I was reluctant to own a smart phone. Given no choice, I've discovered some very attractive features (taking easy notes in the dark). Most often, my "stroke of genius" at 3 in the morning is not worth contemplating in the morning. Occasionally, I remember dreams, and those I frequently write down as inspiration, and avenues into my subconscious.
If you send a string, I'd follow its lead
where'er my heart it may bring
through a whisper, if a light
into darkness beyond night
seas a storm may rend asunder
yet tarry not the tides
for whose smile I climb
up mountains high
pluck
a flower from the gods
or swim up the styx
for a momentofyourtime
I'll surrender all of mine
About as raw a poem as could possibly be. Even as I transfer it from my phone into this blog, I yearn more than anything to edit and prettify the rawness. I probably will, eventually. But I don't often sleep write poetry. You know how it is when you've committed so much time into a practice, habit, activity that your dreams and thoughts are rife with that activity? Like putting a puzzle together so many hours that, even sleeping, you are clicking pieces together in your dreams. Or reading a book hour after hour or studying for a test, and as you lie in bed, your fingers are twitching as they highlight another line, pen another reminder, or your eyes scan left to right and invent new stories for your subconscious reading pleasure. Maybe I read too much poetry these last couple of days, and now my subconscious tries, desperately, to formulate imagery from the sanctums of sleeping story. If so, I hope it continues.
Eventually, I'll be capable of poetry (or some semblance thereof). Nothing's so poetic as the palette of autumn
Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
And a little John Donne Holy Sonnet 14 (always a favorite):
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
August is a fickle season, a human season. Summer simmers and winter shivers, and spring's a night owl in the morning. Fall is that troubled teen: graceful, violently shifting, whimsical, moody, a vibrant, fragile life. When the tears of trees trouble the earth in crimson sheets and cotton clouds sheepishly graze the sky, and the birds skedaddle south or wriggle deeper into their nests, the cork of fall from summer severs us, and our lives flare into a temper of pigments. We are a glass beauty, angelic, translucent, brittle as first frost beneath smoky stars. We are fall.
At some point in my life, I developed a habit of waking in the cradle of night for a bathroom break. During these instances, I write down whatever is on my mind, briefly, on my phone. At first, I was reluctant to own a smart phone. Given no choice, I've discovered some very attractive features (taking easy notes in the dark). Most often, my "stroke of genius" at 3 in the morning is not worth contemplating in the morning. Occasionally, I remember dreams, and those I frequently write down as inspiration, and avenues into my subconscious.
If you send a string, I'd follow its lead
where'er my heart it may bring
through a whisper, if a light
into darkness beyond night
seas a storm may rend asunder
yet tarry not the tides
for whose smile I climb
up mountains high
pluck
a flower from the gods
or swim up the styx
for a momentofyourtime
I'll surrender all of mine
About as raw a poem as could possibly be. Even as I transfer it from my phone into this blog, I yearn more than anything to edit and prettify the rawness. I probably will, eventually. But I don't often sleep write poetry. You know how it is when you've committed so much time into a practice, habit, activity that your dreams and thoughts are rife with that activity? Like putting a puzzle together so many hours that, even sleeping, you are clicking pieces together in your dreams. Or reading a book hour after hour or studying for a test, and as you lie in bed, your fingers are twitching as they highlight another line, pen another reminder, or your eyes scan left to right and invent new stories for your subconscious reading pleasure. Maybe I read too much poetry these last couple of days, and now my subconscious tries, desperately, to formulate imagery from the sanctums of sleeping story. If so, I hope it continues.
Eventually, I'll be capable of poetry (or some semblance thereof). Nothing's so poetic as the palette of autumn
Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
And a little John Donne Holy Sonnet 14 (always a favorite):
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Peace I leave with you
Soccer was quiet, tonight, and not full field. But the people were just as fulfilling. Next week I'll return to full field soccer. Still, afterwards P came over and we lazed around on couches and discussed magic and stories, rest and birthdays, love and silence. He asked me what I was going to do on my Sabbath, since I'd mentioned recently that I hadn't had a day to myself for a week and a half, and Saturday was my day. I told him I'd like to read a book and maybe write a story and P said, "Can you write a story about clouds? And not-people?"
Immediately this popped into my head: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-a6Pe1ovKHg
We were both sleepy at this point, and usually my stories don't stem from such, but I think it may be fun writing with a vague, dreamy prompt. Perhaps there will be a cloud story tomorrow, perhaps not. Either way, I'm excited to write about "persons and the death of a salesman" which I've got all stored up in my head. I almost wrote it in my journal, but I've got to save that for the writing that doesn't make me groan - it is harder to edit journal pen, so it has to be marvelous the first time. Blog entries can be terrible for a while, and that's fine. It is super casual writing anyway.
Well, it's bedtime, so peace I leave with you. Grace and peace be with you.
So begins my Sabbath.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Words
Every now and again, I stumble across words whose sounds and associated meanings surprise me. Pulchritudinous is an easy favorite, but recently I stumbled across the word crepuscular again. I've used the word, myself, but in the context I saw it in, the author meant it as a beautiful palette of colors - I always imagined it when describing a shadowy, creepy setting. It sounds creepy, cavernous, like the maw of a mountain seeking to devour you whole once the sun fully crawls beneath the horizon.
I'm excited, as I suspect that these next few weeks will prove more than interesting. I've pulchritudinous paths prepared before me, if you will. How is it already mid-August? Wanderlust August.
Some difficult circumstantiae have wandered past, and some blessings. Standard fare for the inexorability of time. It is a shifting season, but the crepuscular tides of even summon me to sleep.
-- this had a point.. but I got back home about 2 hours later than I was willing to fight with it. So I truncated the ending and slapped a disclaimer on the end. Victory. --
I'm excited, as I suspect that these next few weeks will prove more than interesting. I've pulchritudinous paths prepared before me, if you will. How is it already mid-August? Wanderlust August.
Some difficult circumstantiae have wandered past, and some blessings. Standard fare for the inexorability of time. It is a shifting season, but the crepuscular tides of even summon me to sleep.
-- this had a point.. but I got back home about 2 hours later than I was willing to fight with it. So I truncated the ending and slapped a disclaimer on the end. Victory. --
Monday, August 12, 2013
Celebration and Sleep Lions.
Since the first week on the dawn of creation, God initiated days of rest and celebration. After working, creating, mythically transforming nothingness into existence (whether in 7 days or 7 aeons, I will not discuss now. That's for another time), God saw his creation as good, and rested.
God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array.
By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.
The word mo'edim used in Leviticus to discuss the holy days means appointed times. I've discussed before the interesting choice of words, here, so I'll skip it this time (lucky you!). The point is, that God realized that we need rest from work, and appointed times of rest and celebration: seasons of praise. Just today, a friend of mine whose mother the doctors said would die by the end of the week was sent home, seemingly on the road towards remarkable healing. This is a cause for celebration. I think there it is more difficult, sometimes, to notice the praiseworthy things extant in our day-to-day than the painful things. Sometimes it is hard to rejoice in the Lord always. And sometimes, you look up at the stars and celebrate; listen to the breeze shifting the pines and maples and pour out blessings; feast with friends, for today is a day the Lord has made, and we should be glad to share it.
I was going to write more, tonight, but the lion of sleep is devouring me. I feel like the cogs of life are turning a titanic wheel, a big-ben-timepiece with a chaotic cuckoo chanting the time, a tiny train racing around the base, a symphonic piece played on the quarter hours in hollow chimes. My life is like the daytime version of the clock in Night Circus, enigmatic and somehow intrinsically a piece of the greater circus surround. Come, sleep, devour me. Let the dreaming begin, Sandman.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Au Clair de la Lune --or-- Dreams in Aquamarine
I slept in until 7 today… well done circadian rhythm. Or something. Figured with a few hours until church, I may as well write. I usually do all my writing at night, so this may turn out disastrous. This story does not carry my sentiment – I love, love, love fall and it’s colors. And I lovelovelove the sea and it’s briny smell and everything. I just copied this over from journal into virtual, with very little editing. I do know that it needs it. Hopefully the typos are not miserable, and that you soon sea the puns not abysmal (hahaha – too funny). I think I stretched every single description in this story for the sake of using lousy oceanic diction. In due course, this story may be a shipwreck. (I so desperately wanted to say on the last one, "just wait, there's moore", but that was a stretch, even for me). Neither of the titles above refer to this story which has but a pending title. Besides, I cheated with the last line, so.... maybe I should just title it: "young man and the sea" and make another reference.
------------------------------------------------------------------
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town. Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience. The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
“Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
“Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone. A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home. Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone. As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne
------------------------------------------------------------------
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town. Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience. The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
“Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
“Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone. A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home. Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone. As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Captive (Need Sleep)
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you see me with all your heart. I will be found by you, " declares the LORD, "and will bring you back from captivity."
A number of things I've read or experienced recently entertain the concept of captiv...- I stop there in the word, because I want the root rather than any particular word that stems from it.
Etymology: from Latin captivus "caught, taken prisoner," from captus, past participle of capere "to take, hold, seize"
I was reading a book called Captivating by John Eldridge and his wife (writers of Wild at Heart - don't make fun of me, it was Matthew's fault), and it discusses a desire, of women in particular, to be captivating. It's more than just beautiful, it is a sort of Quality as exists in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. There is a portion in Name of the Wind that I've always appreciated:
...But there's a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you..." Bast gestured excitedly. "Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn't seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen."
Bast says this in the end, explaining a point, but it is part of it. I've read Night Circus, wherein a certain captivity forces the main characters into a romantic, death game. This weekend, I was captivated in A's wedding, by the sea, by the community, by every smiling face. Every stress shared, I swallowed whole, and my metabolism and sleeping is only now recuperating. I was captivated, and now I feel as though I'm in excitement withdrawal, as my entire being remains captured, and the weekend is now over, and the question remains: now what?
What does this need? More Jeremiah!
“I have loved you with an everlasting love;
Therefore I have drawn you with lovingkindness."
So, that's possibly far removed from context, but that's fine. I think there is something special about quotes like this, something I often forget: this is God speaking about his love for us - not to mention it is God speaking. Awesome. And even though this initially referred to Israel, we have joined the vine of Israel through salvation as per Romans:
If some of the branches have been broken off, and you, though a wild olive shoot, have been grafted in among the others and now share in the nourishing sap from the olive root, do not consider yourself to be superior to those other branches. If you do, consider this: You do not support the root, but the root supports you. You will say then, “Branches were broken off so that I could be grafted in.” Granted. But they were broken off because of unbelief, and you stand by faith. Do not be arrogant, but tremble.
What a rabbit trail of words. This is how tired I am. These words from Jeremiah have meant much to me, today. The Lord has plans for me (for me!). I can be brought back from captivity, whatever it is holding me imprisoned, and I can make every captive to obedience in Christ. My earlier reference to a marathon fell short, unless, reaching the end, I'm exhausted but cannot force myself into a halt, a Sabbath. Captivity and captivation surrounds me: some of it freeing, other portions claustrophobic.
A number of things I've read or experienced recently entertain the concept of captiv...- I stop there in the word, because I want the root rather than any particular word that stems from it.
Etymology: from Latin captivus "caught, taken prisoner," from captus, past participle of capere "to take, hold, seize"
I was reading a book called Captivating by John Eldridge and his wife (writers of Wild at Heart - don't make fun of me, it was Matthew's fault), and it discusses a desire, of women in particular, to be captivating. It's more than just beautiful, it is a sort of Quality as exists in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. There is a portion in Name of the Wind that I've always appreciated:
...But there's a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you..." Bast gestured excitedly. "Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn't seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen."
Bast says this in the end, explaining a point, but it is part of it. I've read Night Circus, wherein a certain captivity forces the main characters into a romantic, death game. This weekend, I was captivated in A's wedding, by the sea, by the community, by every smiling face. Every stress shared, I swallowed whole, and my metabolism and sleeping is only now recuperating. I was captivated, and now I feel as though I'm in excitement withdrawal, as my entire being remains captured, and the weekend is now over, and the question remains: now what?
What does this need? More Jeremiah!
“I have loved you with an everlasting love;
Therefore I have drawn you with lovingkindness."
So, that's possibly far removed from context, but that's fine. I think there is something special about quotes like this, something I often forget: this is God speaking about his love for us - not to mention it is God speaking. Awesome. And even though this initially referred to Israel, we have joined the vine of Israel through salvation as per Romans:
If some of the branches have been broken off, and you, though a wild olive shoot, have been grafted in among the others and now share in the nourishing sap from the olive root, do not consider yourself to be superior to those other branches. If you do, consider this: You do not support the root, but the root supports you. You will say then, “Branches were broken off so that I could be grafted in.” Granted. But they were broken off because of unbelief, and you stand by faith. Do not be arrogant, but tremble.
What a rabbit trail of words. This is how tired I am. These words from Jeremiah have meant much to me, today. The Lord has plans for me (for me!). I can be brought back from captivity, whatever it is holding me imprisoned, and I can make every captive to obedience in Christ. My earlier reference to a marathon fell short, unless, reaching the end, I'm exhausted but cannot force myself into a halt, a Sabbath. Captivity and captivation surrounds me: some of it freeing, other portions claustrophobic.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Mornings and Sleepless Nights
I'm a morning person. Back in high school, I may have been what classified as a sleep person, one of those rare anemic sorts whose consistently tired body forces them into naps, second naps, and early sleep into sleeping in. When your energy level is on par with cats during the day and dogs at night, something's the matter with your circadian rhythm, iron-blood levels, and energy quotient. Eventually, probably beginning in my sophomore year of college, I developed a preference to mornings. Whether I fell asleep at 10pm or 1am, I generally woke before eight, often earlier.
I took naps - and I still often do - but my body awakened earlier than many. I'm still not a five-am person, though often 7-am is even my weekend call for rolling over and beginning my morning meditation. I think one of the reasons I was always a "sleep" person in high school was because I never actually slept very well. Until only a couple of years ago, I thought my condition was normal. I thought insomnia was something other people endured, that it meant staying up all night unable to catch a wink for nights on end. I guess I just never wanted myself categorized in anything like a disorder. I just assumed I could overcome anything like that. I recently did some (lousy) research.
According to Wikipedia:
Insomnia, or sleeplessness, is a sleep disorder in which there is an inability to fall asleep or to stay asleep as long as desired.
According to WebMD:
Insomnia is a sleep disorder that is characterized by difficulty falling and/or staying asleep. People with insomnia have one or more of the following symptoms:
Difficulty falling asleep
Waking up often during the night and having trouble going back to sleep
Waking up too early in the morning
Feeling tired upon waking
Hmm.. well that changes things. So I started trying to weasel my way out of this one, too. My problem isn't that I wake up in the night and can't fall back to sleep, or that I wake up too early and feel tired on waking. Almost always, when I awaken, I feel refreshed (though sometimes I wonder if it is a faux-refreshment, since if I don't get enough sleep, I afternoon crash like I overdosed on sugar and ran 10 miles). No, my problems are all at night: difficulty falling asleep. I discovered the average time it takes for a person to fall asleep is close to 7 minutes. 7 minutes? I average 45 at least, closer to an hour, frequently 50% longer. Is that unusual? Is that a problem?
So where did this all start, this topic? Where was I going? I read recently an author stating that many of the greatest authors of all time did their best work in the morning. Waking up early, they simply wrote everything on their mind and later puzzled it into genius. I'm a morning person, this should work for me too, right? Wrong. Mornings are too natural, and, for some reason, I'm closer to dreams at night. When I'm falling asleep, lying on my mattress at night, these are the times that I divine magical phrases and clever story settings. At night, when the sandman sprinkles his sand into the corners of my drooping eyes, these are the times that my muse strikes, and my music sings. For a bit, I wondered whether I might try and fix my slight insomnia (for it is not a dire exemplar of the disorder). However, I realized recently I would not trade it for the world. Why would I? It is my guiding force into creation. Now, I eagerly await those hours lying awake in bed, not sleeping. Insomnia, my precious art.
I took naps - and I still often do - but my body awakened earlier than many. I'm still not a five-am person, though often 7-am is even my weekend call for rolling over and beginning my morning meditation. I think one of the reasons I was always a "sleep" person in high school was because I never actually slept very well. Until only a couple of years ago, I thought my condition was normal. I thought insomnia was something other people endured, that it meant staying up all night unable to catch a wink for nights on end. I guess I just never wanted myself categorized in anything like a disorder. I just assumed I could overcome anything like that. I recently did some (lousy) research.
According to Wikipedia:
Insomnia, or sleeplessness, is a sleep disorder in which there is an inability to fall asleep or to stay asleep as long as desired.
According to WebMD:
Insomnia is a sleep disorder that is characterized by difficulty falling and/or staying asleep. People with insomnia have one or more of the following symptoms:
Difficulty falling asleep
Waking up often during the night and having trouble going back to sleep
Waking up too early in the morning
Feeling tired upon waking
Hmm.. well that changes things. So I started trying to weasel my way out of this one, too. My problem isn't that I wake up in the night and can't fall back to sleep, or that I wake up too early and feel tired on waking. Almost always, when I awaken, I feel refreshed (though sometimes I wonder if it is a faux-refreshment, since if I don't get enough sleep, I afternoon crash like I overdosed on sugar and ran 10 miles). No, my problems are all at night: difficulty falling asleep. I discovered the average time it takes for a person to fall asleep is close to 7 minutes. 7 minutes? I average 45 at least, closer to an hour, frequently 50% longer. Is that unusual? Is that a problem?
So where did this all start, this topic? Where was I going? I read recently an author stating that many of the greatest authors of all time did their best work in the morning. Waking up early, they simply wrote everything on their mind and later puzzled it into genius. I'm a morning person, this should work for me too, right? Wrong. Mornings are too natural, and, for some reason, I'm closer to dreams at night. When I'm falling asleep, lying on my mattress at night, these are the times that I divine magical phrases and clever story settings. At night, when the sandman sprinkles his sand into the corners of my drooping eyes, these are the times that my muse strikes, and my music sings. For a bit, I wondered whether I might try and fix my slight insomnia (for it is not a dire exemplar of the disorder). However, I realized recently I would not trade it for the world. Why would I? It is my guiding force into creation. Now, I eagerly await those hours lying awake in bed, not sleeping. Insomnia, my precious art.
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