Well.  Huh.  I think I need to sleep.  I think it is top priority.   I tried last night, but I didn’t really try.  Maybe 1:30, I dropped off.  I need more than that.  I need to give myself more than I give myself.  I think this whole weekend of five hours here, six hours there,  has incurred a debt that just came due.  I haven’t felt well at all today.   I’ve just had this caffeinated – despite not having an extraordinary amount of caffeine today – jittery feeling.  Along with this stressed-out shallow breathing, panicky thinking that I couldn’t calm down whatsoever and just thinking some rather scary health-related thoughts.  What made it rather more challenging is that I’m at work and I need to remain calm enough that nobody would ask what was wrong.  But at the same time, I think all of that, or at least most of it,  was just self-perpetuated.   Worrying about it, finding it dissipating and myself relaxing and then worrying that I just wasn’t paying attention.  And the only safe place was the place of panic which sure made this giant day of trying to do everything and finding myself moving like molasses suck.

That whole paragraph reads like I felt, and a tiny bit still feel.

I need to sleep.

I think I will have a better sense of everything in the morning. I hope so.


What things did you create as a child?

I am thinking of a particular day, sort of gray and rainy, when we went to R’s house.  It was new, on Exposition, a street name I had never heard of.  Once there, we walked around outside, in this half-graded backyard full of dirt, dirt red and desolate enough that I imagined I was walking around on the surface of Mars. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember being ushered back in at some point and we made bookmarks by melting crayons between plastic sheets.  I remember shaving the colors, burnt sienna, cornflower, something bright, lime green, and surely there was some sort of pink.  As you pressed it together they became marbleized and you could open them up a couple times and use a toothpick to swirl them further and press again before they hardened together, sealed.

We did make all sorts of things, didn’t we?  There was ceramics class, which I think I could have been better at if I’d been given more time at the potter’s wheel.  I can still feel the sandy sensation of the wet clay as it spun against your skin.  What it was to draw up a vase and make it fairly even, fairly smooth, and for a time, a thing that matched the image in your head of what this vase should be.  That we’d glaze it, I remember I always went for celadon, and it would become…art.  Somehow.  Sort of.   Hand forming an awful, inept plaque of grapes painstakingly removed from a slab of clay.  Kind of miss doing things just for the sake of doing them.

Ironic given a few things right now.

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