Cold sweat seems so trite rolling from my tongue, or leastwise, coming out of the ends of my fingers onto the keys. But cold sweat is an apt description of how I woke up this morning; later than usual, but not as late as I would have liked for my day off. My brain was in a dream-induced confusion; my down comforter too heavy; and my bed unfamiliarly empty of anyone but me.

It took me a good solid minute of controlled breathing and staring at my dimly lit ceiling to piece things together.

I won't tell you about the dream, or what I remember of it, but only of the feeling it created in my gut, in my head, in my whole being. A feeling of profound wrongness. All was lost to me. My world had been shaken around like a trinket snow globe, but the pieces refused to fall back to logical order. My bastion of support in life is ever-present in my dreams when I remember them, but he was strangely absent from all but the beginning of this one. Replaced only by dread. Dread of decisions about the future, fears about my past, my mother, death, hiding, test anxiety. Apparently the only person I could think of in my dream to help me was far too engrossed in texting and came dressed in a slightly too large Storm Trooper uniform.

I seldom like remembering my dreams. I rarely remember the good ones...

Nov 2

I did not forget to write yesterday, I simply wrote in my notebook and haven't translated it onto my laptop etc. I may not post here every day, but be assured, I am writing.

There is a beagle who lives above me. He is the loneliest beagle in the whole world. I have never seen this dog, but I hear him daily, singing for his owners to return to him and end his cruel lonely torment.

I know that the floor above is not carpeted. This is evident when aformentioned beagle scuddles across it in frantic attempts to find some company.

These are not the only things I know about the apartment upstairs. I also know that the people like to tap dance in each room (on the hardwood floors) at all hours of the day and night. Additionally, they seem to be training for a wrestling title by throwing themselves repeatedly at the floor from some great height.

Also, I'm sure I'd find burried treasure just above my coffee table. I heard them them sawing and digging and pounding there recently.

They are whimsical people who enjoy a new veiw every day or so by routinely dragging heavy objects such as sofas and shelves back and forth.

Then there is the rocking chair. The slow, rhythmic creak wakes me up in the wee hours, as it is directly above my bed.

I feel it in my stomach, heavy, dead. The taste on my tongue contaminates my mouth, makes my throat dry, my lips crack.

The feeling is dread, the taste; fear.

Surprisingly, my hands aren't sweaty, I must have wrung them dry. And my breathing, despite the foulness inside me, is steady and even. i hope my voice can mirror that.



(read nothing into this, it's just a description)

November is for writing.

I am not going to write a novel for the month of November, but I am going to write. A lot. As much as I can. And read more. I am going to write about my memories from youth and abroad. I'm going to write detailed descriptions of places and things. I'm going to write short interactions between characters. I'm going to write some sci/fi and/or fantasy. I may even write some smut, if the muse presents itself.

I'm going to. Keep me to it.

I want to write so badly. (I do write badly? Poorly?) I wish to put into words the thoughts in my head. The visons I see on these clear autumn days. I want to write about the snow-flocked pinons in early October, the swish of crystals underfoot. I don't know how to describe the delicious crunch of flaming leaves lining the sidewalks, or the way the air smells in the morning as the sun is waking up the sky. Mere discriptions only go so far. I crave meat for these fine skinned bones. I want to be able to transport people, to make them feel as I intend. To manipulate and lie to show them the truth as I see it. It is a lofty goal.

I keep saying how I want to write more. So here it is. An attempt to write regualarly, even if it's drivel.



The sun shines brightly now, though clouds occasionally pass between it and me. It's radiance is almost too much. I cower inadvertantly, seeking the shade. I dislike the starkenss of light. I enjoy it better when mingled with shade. Harlequen hues to show my way. Scattered patterns to pick my way through.

I really want to start writing again. I like being creative. I miss that outlet.

I've been following a friend's blog. She's been in the process of writing a series of novels and has been commenting on her progress and the like. It's a very good read and makes me wish I were part of something similar.

I don't feel as though I'm doing anything with my life recently. I've been really caught up in my transition and I've sort of forgotten the larger picture. I feel stagnant in my job. It's a decent one with decent pay, but it's not what I want to be doing forever. It's been over two years, I need to move on. But I don't know what to move on toward. I want to use my degree, I want to help people and travel. But I'm tied here for a bit. With good reason. At least until next summer. In the meantime, I'm hoping to find something to do that might at least interest me. I am going to be changing my work schedule to four ten hour days, so I will have a day or two free for an internship, volunteering or even classes if I so desire. And I don't know what I'll do with that time, but I'm vowing now to use it wisely, and not just as another lazy day.

As much as I hate the thought, I've been entertaining the idea of taking classes again. I won't say "going back to school" because it makes me sick inside. I really have always dreaded school. However, I miss learning. I miss intelligent discussions. I miss writing and reading. I miss being caught up on events and methods and theories. I miss being relevant.