Exactly 3am

Ugh it's 3am. I know it. I start arguing with myself, 'Don't check the time. If you don't check it then it might not be and the longer you don't check it, then if it is 3am now, then it won't be 3am anymore when you do....'  This is an irrational inner conversation and I know it but then my hand is reaching for my phone -without the other half of my brain being fully on board, and I check the time -

UGH IT is Exactly 3AM.

I think about it for a few more minutes...  Maybe.... maybe if I just wait a little more... I start counting backwards "100...99...98...97...96..." Breath in on the first two numbers, out on the third and fourth, slowly.....

I give up at 47.  Nasty number that one; an odd number that adds up to an odd number, eleven. -I am getting irrelevant.  Get up and do something or stay here and start counting again.

I slide up and out.

Luna is on to me lately.  Sweet creature doesn't know why the human is up, it is better to go back to bed!  Her worried little face is so beseeching I take her back to her bed and kiss her and tell her to go back to sleep. She does, gratefully.

I go to my safe haven, the art room and start to sketch in purple markers.  Char joins me almost immediately and takes his place by the window to watch.

Elephants are the latest dream subject.  I love elephants.  I haven't been up close to one so the kinship is entirely the result of my overly active imagination, books and YouTube videos.  I'm always leery of actually meeting one.  What if desiring the acquaintance is one sided?

I am grinning at my train of thought, this one is funny and I think I will stay on it for a minute.  The resulting elephant in front of me is now an interesting hot pink.

4am and We who are dreamers, the writers, artists and thinkers

"You are not the moon kissing the black sky."

Epic sentence isn't it?  I am suspended in the mental picture conjured by that combination of words (online).

It is 4am.  I like 4am.  It is the hour of stealth.  My best friend's breathing is unchanged as my weight shifts out of bed and Luna the young canine, doesn't flicker a muscle as I quietly ease past. I wander to my precious art room, and I curl up on the office chair to watch my overly painted and sketched Lone Peak wake up.  Charlie, the cat-dog, also a master of stealth; slinks in and onto my lap to stretch out his long body for a cuddle, one white paw reaching out to rest on my hand.

I love the 'alone-ness' of this hour.  I don't have to be anywhere, no one is looking for me, there is nothing that needs to be done.  Off in the distance, even the interstate, which is a badly clogged artery from 6am to 3am, flows cleanly and quietly.

Char brings me back as he starts purring, and I remember my Sal. I remember Grandpa. I remember Dee. I don't believe in anything like heaven or hell.  I believe in right now and the power and energy of the soul. And I believe that Energy cannot be extinguished, it can only be recycled.

I woke up from a dream.  I can't quite remember it, I can just barely hold it in my hands, like a postcard with only a quick note but given the decorative picture, the return address; the non-descriptive greeting was  loaded with the perfume of somewhere and something else.

Reader I have always needed to write to you. You were the journal, the napkin, the back of my hand, a wish on a star; a message on the beach written out in small smooth stones.  I have been writing to you all my life.

I was looking for a sketch from a long time ago.  I pulled out the journal I figured it would be in, the small black painted journal from the summer and fall of 2002.  I read a few pages and laughed at the almost indecent bluntness of my entries.

I self edit now.  I apply a filter and censor before I articulate my thoughts; and not just here, but everywhere. Is that an age thing? Do you also cut yourself off mid thought?

4am

When I was little,
I had all these words in my head,
too many questions needing to be said.

I would write them with symbols,
maybe sketched out in the sand,
or sometimes finger drawn into the muddy land.

Reading and writing,
well those skills came a bit late.
But not knowing didn't stop me from marking my slate.

Is this the definition of what we need?
We who are dreamers, the writers, artists and thinkers,
We who are all trying to be creators

We cast out our ghosts nets
as they burst with moonlight,
Once again breaking the string of the kite.

We must reach for the stars,
We must dream of the night,
So that every morning, we are again overwhelmed by sunlight.

Molten Insomnia at 3am (Original Art)

Molten Insomnia at 3am
15" X 14" X 1.5"
Acrylic 
(Details: (4) 5" X 7" X .75" canvases on (1) 12" X 12" X .75" canvas) 
**Sold**

In the Dark

I woke up last night, so restless I knew I was suffocating.  Before my dramatic panic could gain a good foot hold I realized that in my sleep I had smashed my face into a feather pillow and was literally a little short on air. Now chuckling at myself, I rolled over, waking myself up all the way.  I quietly got up before I could toss and turn my darling awake too and headed downstairs.

Char excitedly jumped into my lap as I sat on the couch.  We played 'chase the string' (which is way more awesome in the muted light of 4 am than ever before known.) This cheered me up for a bit but as he settled on my chest for a cuddle my thoughts again soured...

Age is marching on my face.  I have gained ELEVEN frigging pounds in the last three months. Every day, I woefully eat my Greek yogurt/ raspberry breakfast and then later munch down my loaded veggie salad, snacking only on almonds, hard boiled eggs and bell peppers... while I resentfully glare at skinny coworkers snacking on cream cheesed bagels and raspberry muffins.

I get to work in the dark.  I stare at my computer screen, checking internet references against word docs, without access to windows.   I leave work in the dark. I get home and make dinner.  I sit in a dark living room and stare at a TV, the blood in my ears sounding thick and heavy.  My art sits silently collecting dust in the company of many double stacked unread books. We stay up late.  I sleep badly.  I get up in the dark.

My special kind of hell is a regular happy world for others.  I am confused why I don't seem to adapt. I have struggled into this ill fitting sweater every day for years now.  Years and years.  Everyone around me seems to be just fine with the hours, with the commute, the grey walls, shared lunches in windowless break rooms and dress pants. Why am I not just fine too? Why am I slamming my inner fists against the walls?

I went outside yesterday, during the day.  Watery December sunlight kissed my face for the first time in three days and just for a moment I felt lighter. So today, as I got to work in the dark, I carried with me my tennis shoes. At 9 am, an hour and a half in, I traded my heels for them and walked around outside for ten blissful shivering minutes.