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She Who Shouldn't Be Awake
May. 15th, 2006 06:18 amSweet Merlin in Arda!--as it is late enough at night that I may be permitted to mix fandoms in my ejaculations.
I am doomed to a life of insomnia. Heaven help me. I can't be anything other than a writer-filmmaker-musician, because if I cannot make my own hours, then I shall never, ever hold a steady job. Unless they'll let me come in at noon, which would be suitable, and I'd get to bring a bag lunch. I like bag lunches; it's romantic, in a weirdly prosaic way--maybe not romantic, then, but classic--to have a sandwich and some carrots or crackers or whatnot, and some cookies or a candy bar, and a napkin, and a soda, all wrapped up in a cosy parcel, and one gets to open it and have a little moment to oneself among the hubbub, generally. Perhaps I mainly like the idea of a bag lunch because when I had my drama club at the school Dad taught at for a year or two, I used to pack one. Mum and I sort of collaborated, actually; she'd usually tuck in cookies, but there was a vending machine at the school where I would insert my dollar and fifty cents and get myself a soda, Oreos, and one of two or three candy bars which I favoured. Needless to say, my time in the drama club was not the best time for my overall figure. However, because of Dad's working schedule, we would have to leave two and a half hours before the class or practice started, so he would leave me at the library for that time, and I would read, write, and occasionally do schoolwork which Mum would deviously leave me at whim. I miss those days, and that library; it's one of those arbitrary things I miss about Boston (although this was Salem, but it was The Boston Area, and all of New England is special to me). Of course, my drama meetings had ceased rather a while before we moved away, but still--it was nice to have time all to myself in a place full of books and a magnificent inter-library loan system.
What I mean to say in that ridiculously meandering paragraph is this: it is one thirty-eight in the morning, and I, as usual, am Devoid of Sleep. (The cat accosted me, too, and not only insisted I let him in, but he then chirruped at me until I sat down on the large chair in the great room and cuddled him. He purred so stormily that I was worried about him suddenly bursting asunder.)
Also, as it is now one thirty-nine in the morning, I should be In Bed, not down here poking at the computer, as someone is bound to catch me and give me a tongue-lashing. But my mind is always so alive at night, fresh with ideas waiting to be called up, and it's such an awful pity that I must go to sleep every night, 'domestic as a plate', and ruin it. (Of course, I am not going to sleep right now, but as I cannot move about as I please, I might as well be.)
One forty-three. Bloody night owl disorder! (And I have tried reading; I finished Anne of Windy Poplars and could probably find about seventeen other books in the ground zero that is my bedroom, but reading doesn't make me sleepy, it just keeps me from going mad. Music often helps, because it's something I can centre all--er, most of my attention on, anyway, which quiets my mind, but I've been sans headphones for weeks, and don't want to wake anyone with the stereo.)
One fifty! Good night! (Ha!)
I am doomed to a life of insomnia. Heaven help me. I can't be anything other than a writer-filmmaker-musician, because if I cannot make my own hours, then I shall never, ever hold a steady job. Unless they'll let me come in at noon, which would be suitable, and I'd get to bring a bag lunch. I like bag lunches; it's romantic, in a weirdly prosaic way--maybe not romantic, then, but classic--to have a sandwich and some carrots or crackers or whatnot, and some cookies or a candy bar, and a napkin, and a soda, all wrapped up in a cosy parcel, and one gets to open it and have a little moment to oneself among the hubbub, generally. Perhaps I mainly like the idea of a bag lunch because when I had my drama club at the school Dad taught at for a year or two, I used to pack one. Mum and I sort of collaborated, actually; she'd usually tuck in cookies, but there was a vending machine at the school where I would insert my dollar and fifty cents and get myself a soda, Oreos, and one of two or three candy bars which I favoured. Needless to say, my time in the drama club was not the best time for my overall figure. However, because of Dad's working schedule, we would have to leave two and a half hours before the class or practice started, so he would leave me at the library for that time, and I would read, write, and occasionally do schoolwork which Mum would deviously leave me at whim. I miss those days, and that library; it's one of those arbitrary things I miss about Boston (although this was Salem, but it was The Boston Area, and all of New England is special to me). Of course, my drama meetings had ceased rather a while before we moved away, but still--it was nice to have time all to myself in a place full of books and a magnificent inter-library loan system.
What I mean to say in that ridiculously meandering paragraph is this: it is one thirty-eight in the morning, and I, as usual, am Devoid of Sleep. (The cat accosted me, too, and not only insisted I let him in, but he then chirruped at me until I sat down on the large chair in the great room and cuddled him. He purred so stormily that I was worried about him suddenly bursting asunder.)
Also, as it is now one thirty-nine in the morning, I should be In Bed, not down here poking at the computer, as someone is bound to catch me and give me a tongue-lashing. But my mind is always so alive at night, fresh with ideas waiting to be called up, and it's such an awful pity that I must go to sleep every night, 'domestic as a plate', and ruin it. (Of course, I am not going to sleep right now, but as I cannot move about as I please, I might as well be.)
One forty-three. Bloody night owl disorder! (And I have tried reading; I finished Anne of Windy Poplars and could probably find about seventeen other books in the ground zero that is my bedroom, but reading doesn't make me sleepy, it just keeps me from going mad. Music often helps, because it's something I can centre all--er, most of my attention on, anyway, which quiets my mind, but I've been sans headphones for weeks, and don't want to wake anyone with the stereo.)
One fifty! Good night! (Ha!)
