Fuel
Not entirely sure why I am starting a post, because I think I must be tired. I mean, I didn't sleep last night, at all - it's kinda been that way lately, bad sleep, tossing and turning because of my totally fucked back, coupled with an overactive imagination. Have been having these "dreams" which are not really dreams, because I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm lying in bed not sleeping; they're weird enough trains of thought that you might mistake them for dreams, but dreams they are not. More like a mental television set, running all night. Fucking annoying.
I'm craving dead sleep, sleep where I'm in another world, where everything's on autopilot, the body decides it's comfortable enough, and even if it moves, it doesn't register with the brain, with consciousness. I want to forget my body. That's the kind of sleep I need. It's so fucking rare.
After not sleeping, I went to work and literally did not eat or drink a single thing all day other than my black morning coffee. We have a community meal where I work every week, and staff rotates to do the honors. This was my week. Something about cooking for a crowd causes me to utterly lose my appetite. I made a white chili, which by all accounts was very good, also cornbread. We had vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberry compote. I just couldn't eat any of it. I had the teeniest taste(s) of the chili, just to adjust the seasoning.
I was such a spaced-out, sleep-deprived, dehydrated, pms-ing wreck by the time I left there that as soon as I stepped out the door I started crying, and didn't stop til I got home. At home I drank three large glasses of water, and started feeling better incrementally. I realized I needed calories, but the thought of chewing and swallowing anything was turning my stomach.
It occurred to me that a Guinness might help. Made my way down to the packy, the owner as usual was sitting in the back of the store. I head back to drop off my empties. "How's it going?" he asks helpfully. I scrunch up my face. "Honestly? Not that great." I shrug dismissively. He seems slightly amused by this response. "Well, it's my Friday at least," I continue "can't be that bad." I snatch up a 4-pack of Guinness Draught. Giving me my change, again with a funny smile, the owner says "I hope your night gets better." I nod, "Me too."
The night, to be honest, got a lot better. The Guinness was exactly what I needed. Restored my appetite enough to make some french toast with dark rye, frickin' yum, seriously. Then I found out that tomorrow will be a sleepover, which kind of put a red wax seal embossed with a big "IT"S OK" on the day/night. Sleeping like the dead would change that to "IT"S FUCKING GREAT" but I'll take OK for now...
I'm craving dead sleep, sleep where I'm in another world, where everything's on autopilot, the body decides it's comfortable enough, and even if it moves, it doesn't register with the brain, with consciousness. I want to forget my body. That's the kind of sleep I need. It's so fucking rare.
After not sleeping, I went to work and literally did not eat or drink a single thing all day other than my black morning coffee. We have a community meal where I work every week, and staff rotates to do the honors. This was my week. Something about cooking for a crowd causes me to utterly lose my appetite. I made a white chili, which by all accounts was very good, also cornbread. We had vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberry compote. I just couldn't eat any of it. I had the teeniest taste(s) of the chili, just to adjust the seasoning.
I was such a spaced-out, sleep-deprived, dehydrated, pms-ing wreck by the time I left there that as soon as I stepped out the door I started crying, and didn't stop til I got home. At home I drank three large glasses of water, and started feeling better incrementally. I realized I needed calories, but the thought of chewing and swallowing anything was turning my stomach.
It occurred to me that a Guinness might help. Made my way down to the packy, the owner as usual was sitting in the back of the store. I head back to drop off my empties. "How's it going?" he asks helpfully. I scrunch up my face. "Honestly? Not that great." I shrug dismissively. He seems slightly amused by this response. "Well, it's my Friday at least," I continue "can't be that bad." I snatch up a 4-pack of Guinness Draught. Giving me my change, again with a funny smile, the owner says "I hope your night gets better." I nod, "Me too."
The night, to be honest, got a lot better. The Guinness was exactly what I needed. Restored my appetite enough to make some french toast with dark rye, frickin' yum, seriously. Then I found out that tomorrow will be a sleepover, which kind of put a red wax seal embossed with a big "IT"S OK" on the day/night. Sleeping like the dead would change that to "IT"S FUCKING GREAT" but I'll take OK for now...
posted by Black Egg at 10:17 PM
4 Comments:
where you been?
Around the bend. Preoccupied and trying to sort things out. No high drama. Just a sort of pressing inner intensity. Not great for writing. I'm trying.
"inner intesity" "not great for writing"?!?! wtf? thats the best stuff for writing! not always the best stuff for sharing, so i get it... keep your chin up, makes it easier to see where you are going.
Yes, inner intensity can be great sometimes for writing, I agree. But sometimes I just feel like an iron vault - very closed, still, guarded, heavy - definitely not great for writing or much of anything else for that matter. Thanks for the thoughts, appreciated as always.
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