War with Me

Every night I wage a war.  The enemy crawls into the room and begins its familiar bombardment, first with feathers and then with rubber bullets.  In a matter of minutes I’m surrounded by fire breathing dragons screaming with urgency – I must enter their realm.  I refuse, at least for a few more hours.  It’s about the fight, yet I don’t even know where my objection starts in me.  This battle makes no sense and doesn’t do me any good.  But somehow, Sleep has become my enemy.

Its army comes at me as if I’m expecting it.  Like I’ll throw myself at their mercy once the grenades are thrown.  I shake my head and pop my lids open again, a yawn stretches me but I stay connected to the wakeful world … with my eyes.

Two days ago I went to the eye doctor and he tells me I have slight cataracts in my left eye and the onset of macular degeneration in my right.  What’s left to fight with if I don’t have my eyes?  The monster approaches tonight and my weapons start to ache.

All these years, for reasons I don’t comprehend, I fought sleep off.  It isn’t insomnia; it’s a conscientious, albeit an underground and seditiously layered response.  My mind wants to stay rapt with the happenings of the day or the fantasies I’ve missed while doing the responsible job thing.  It wants to read new depths and experience different worlds, scan new perspectives and flex different thoughts.  It’s crosshairs are a pair of blue peepers I’ve had since I was born.  Now the weapons of choice are losing their effectiveness yet the enemy is in no way breaking its stride.

It certainly occurs to me (on a regular basis, should you question my clarity on this matter) – sleep would assuredly heal my situation,  or at a minimum slow this eye-death process.  Would that I could allow myself to be taken prisoner.  To surrender.  The sheets and the pillow call my weary body.  Why can’t I give in?  Shell shock?  Post traumatic stress syndrome?

But I still fight.  I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop this madness.  No doubt if I could just figure out what started this war for me, I’d be able to agree to a cease-fire, draw up a peace plan.  Resolve to do what’s best for my sanity.

Alas, I fear that peace may never come.


blank pages

Nothing more depressing than a blank page.  Nothing more bothersome than a quiet room with no story or voices in my head.  Darkness pours in through the patio door window and I am too lazy to get up and go close the blinds.  It was a sunny day today.

One would think my description would be that of, “glimmering rays of warmth embracing my arms and neck … soothing away the recent snowfall debacle, and ushering me into a few spare moments of joy before the real winter hits.”  Not so.  Instead, my inner self forced the following into my head, as I scanned the scenery and looked for another angle that would push my story along:

The fickle sun’s rays teased me into seeing what the world had turned into these past few days.  I had not been tempted at all to open the curtains or draw the blinds. What point was there to watch, as shadows covered the land and temperatures made it clear – nature was pushing us to fear what she could do if our technology failed and our manufactured heat disappeared.  But now I could tell that, if spring and summer never came (a very real possibility in my depressed state), our paths would be muddy and austere; sparse plains of nothingness would engulf us and smother us in severity.  No love, no joy, no amount of pleasantries could make this landscape seem hopeful.  My eyes glazed into thought as the sunlight danced upon my heart’s grave.  “Come out,” it taunted me, “hurry before the story ends and I hokey-pokey myself around.”

“Fuck-You,” I said to the sun.  I shut the blinds and poured myself a drink.

I searched and searched for words I could feel good about writing in the continuation of this damn mystery story I’m into.  And these are all I could find.  Somewhere in the story, I’ll have Malone break into this little diatribe.  Meanwhile, what will motivate the reader to like the characters enough to care?  Who murdered the family and why?  What will happen to the little boy, and what is his name?  I wish I were invested more in this story and these characters.  If I shovel out the required words, I’ll have a book, but I wouldn’t want to read people with whom their writer doesn’t even find an affinity.  Perhaps I’ll use this initial “novel” to test the self-publishing waters, learn the systems with a piece I’m not concerned about breaking or sharing.

If you are an aspiring writer like me, and want to watch the gory details of a book, either being born or dying before it’s time – stay tuned, Dear Reader.  I can’t, in good conscience, commit to finishing this novel.  But I will continue to bore, complain, whine, splatter more parts of the storyline, and (in general) fight to keep this dream alive, after long dark days of other important work and a tired soul.

Open Letter to My Spammer

Dear Herbert Pereiro (if that’s even your real name),

Although your comment was humorous, your email address was not.  Luckily the spam filter (my hero) snatched your silliness up and placed you in the holding tank for a time out.  I hope you have had time to think about what you’ve attempted.  I wish for you “to be made aware the” ethics and values “if you situate this” letter to your mind.  I will not be sharing my email with you.  Nor will I be entertaining any thoughts of what outrageous deals I may have been offered or what terrible things you might have tried to do by hacking into my email.

I think it is safe to say that you don’t actually have children.  If you did, you would need to actually make a living doing something productive to pay for their care and upbringing.  But if you do have a “4 day older daughter,” I hope you take a good look into her eyes and reconsider your choice of profession.  Also, if you have time to take your kids to the beachfront, you have time to get a real job.

I agree with you on one count.  This IS a “perfectly inedible focus” and ask that next time you have such a story with ulterior motives, you don’t “discern” anyone.

Not your friend, sucker, or victim,


RE:  “Today, I went to the beachfront with my children. I establish a sea shell and gave it to my 4 day older daughter and understood “You can be made aware the ocean if you situate this to your ear.” She situate the shell to her ear and screamed. In attendance was a hermit crab inside and it pinched her ear. She never wishes to go back! LoL I identify this is perfectly inedible focus but I had to discern someone!”


You know how, on those National Geographic nature specials, the speedy stalking animal takes down one of the herd? And the narrator explains how the prey is one of the slower, sicker, or younger members of the group?  They claim that the hunter or pack pursues the prey in a way that eventually separates out one or more for their dinner.  But it doesn’t always line up, this explanation.  Sometimes the victim seems perfectly fine, not noticeably sluggish or weak – just unlucky.  That’s how I feel about cancer.

I recently heard somewhere that more and more women who have lived healthy, tobacco free lives, are getting lung cancer. Continue reading