5  a.m. rainy morning
silent house breathes too loud
the skies unleash their sorrow on our world
can't sleep. don't want to sleep.
never want to wake up
is living on no sleep better than this?
will it help mask my pain or accentuate it?
i go through life in a daze
seeing the world through clouded eyes
happiness is fleeting
does that make it less real?
why does it never stay?
make yourself welcome, a home
a cozy place to rest your weary head
knowing not where you'll wake up
or when
or if
i always feel so alone
step on my own feet
tangled in my own sheets
bleary-eyed, running into walls
when i turn corners
i never rest when i sleep
still running away from myself
from the world
from the few who might take me thusly
loves' labours were lost by those like me
or maybe merely discarded

Gratitude List

- my sister who takes care of me. She is awesome.

-my friends who go above and beyond.


-kitty snuggles.

Gratitude List

I am grateful for:

Two beautiful kitties that adore me, in their own way. They're always so happy to see me when I come home.

One kitty in particular who hunts all the scary roaches and kills them before they make her mama scream and throw things.

A mom and dad who help me, who pay for the roof over my head, the food in my stomach, and the cars I drive to work.

A sister that loves me, even though I'm randomly mean to her.

Music. Sweet, sweet music, in all your varied forms.

I don't want to go to sleep at night. I'm not sure why. It probably has a lot to do with being separated from my husband. I'm not afraid of the dark, I'm not worried about bad dreams; I just want to stay awake and knit. Or spin. Or read. Or watch tv. I can usually do it, too, since I don't have a day job. No reason to wake up early means I have very little reason to go to bed early.

The worst part of it is that I want to audition for young artist programs. As a cellist, it didn't matter how late I'd gone to bed before, how much I'd had to drink, if I was sick, if I had a headache, etc. That's certainly not true as a singer. Every little thing affects my voice. If I want to sound good, I need to take care of myself. And I haven't been.

I think I'm self-destructing. I'm afraid of getting what I want, so I sabotage myself.


This ends now. I'm going to clean off my bed, turn off the computer and go to sleep. And tomorrow, I'm going to be productive.

ehh, so much for regular updates. Or the 30 in 30 thing.

I just finished knitting a shawl out of my own handspun yarn. Between the colors of the original two skeins being a bit muddy and then having to spin  more yarn to finish it, it needs to be dyed. That probably won't happen until next week, as I'm both busy and having a strong case of the lazies.

In the meantime, I've started knitting a sweater out of some gorgeous alpaca/silk yarn that's been sitting in my stash for several years. Loving it so far.

Day 3: My parents

My father is a hard man. He doesn't think like most people; doesn't much give a damn about societal niceties. He was a career Navy man, but I think that he's always been like this; it's his father's fault. I see his siblings, and I know that the military had very little to do with shaping his personality.

I don't like him very much. I don't respect him, either, but I realized last month that I do love him. I wish I didn't. Terrible, but true. But I must admit, having such a rough childhood has made me capable. I know that when emergencies arise, I can deal with it. I've had to, to survive. And I know that I can at least fend for myself in situations that some women would be hopelessly lost in. I can change a tire. Hell, I can change the brake pads on my car, given enough light. I know how to defend myself against a mugger- and I know that in most cases, it's smarter to just give the mugger what he wants. Physical property is not worth my safety. If someone around me is in a medical emergency, I know how to deal. More importantly, I know how to deal with the people around me having hysterics. I suppose, for these small things, at least, I should be grateful to my dad.

My mom was a lounge singer when she was young. She was basically forced into it, despite her extreme shyness, because of her family's financial instability. She never went to college, but she's so smart. She loves wholeheartedly. She always wants to help.

She's also stubborn to a fault. She has a short temper when she's with the family (I got that from both of them- yay).She frequently gets hysterical over my dad's faults. She can be both obsessively perfectionist and randomly lazy (shoot, I got that one from her, too). Sometimes, I just want her to stop talking. But for all the things about her that bug me, I always know that she loves me.

Day 2: My first love

My first love was the written word. I had planned to write a post about my first love being music, but as I sat and contemplated, I realized that there was never a time in my life when I did not love books. Reading. Writing (though I think I'm pretty bad at it). I can distinctly remember the beginning of my love affair with music (third grade, after-school piano lessons with the school's music teacher. He encouraged me to audition for a magnet school at the end of the year and ended up changing my life), but reading has never not been a part of me.

I read so many different types of stories. Mainly fiction. Non-fiction as well, as long as the subject is interesting to me and it's well-written. I read Tolstoy when I was 8 (though I admit plainly that I didn't fully comprehend half of it). I read Poe in elementary school, Ayn Rand in middle. I also love historical romances, horror, fantasy, science-fiction, young adult, the occasional murder mystery, almost anything; just so long as they're well-written. I mean, Dean Koontz has some really fascinating ideas, good character development, and interesting twists. But reading his books is like burning my scalp with a curling iron as I style my hair. I'm getting what I want, but it really hurts to get there.

I've tried writing. I'm pretty good at poetry (free form, anyway). I'm quite good at essays and papers. But actual stories? They just seem to get all stuck in my head and never manage to flow down to my fingertips.

I read frequently and voraciously. I usually have more than one book going at a time, unless I've found one that really sucks me in. Then I have a tendency to stay up all night reading because i just always want to know what happens next! My sister is the same way. We used to get grounded as kids because we were reading late at night instead of going to sleep. At least now it's my choice; if I don't mind being a zombie the next day, I never have to stop reading.