He’s watching me from his wheelchair, but not in the same way as the business man sipping his drink from the booth in the back is. His eyes burn like two darks meant to hit my back.

Her dress sways when she turns to look at me. It’s white fabric, smooth, the kind that gather at her hip and rushed back into place as soon as she stops. I am fixated on the curve of her calf muscle. I don’t even care that she can see my stare.

My hesitation is for the obvious reasons. The chair he is confined to is so large it consumes him. I notice it when I walked in, but there no further reaction to what I saw out of the corner of my eye. Facing him fully now, it paralyzes me. My head is filled with terrible thing, inappropriate thought you wouldn’t dare to whisper aloud. What can he feel? Have his legs always looked so weak? Does he ever hide them? My grandpa had been wheel chair ridden. I remember him fondly, forever with a blanket dropped from his waist and over his knees.

I clear my throat. It makes me feel less like sand is dripping into my lungs at an alarming rate. I feel my hair sprouting into wisps from crown to nape. They make me look like a feeble boy. Licking my hand and smoothing them back into place will not help my case. I reach down to the wheels of my chair, but before I can make a move, she is already stepping in next to me.

“Was there something you needed?” My cheeks flush with an instant pink. I am embarrassed, but not for any reason we he would know. I feel this way because if he had been any other man in this room, these are not the words I would have used to begin. It breaks my heart to see his eyes turn down. His hands look so limp collapsed together against his thighs.

I have met one woman in my life that held no shame when she met me. Her introduction included no pleasantries and no awkwardness. She asked about my condition with such rudeness I found her instantly charming. We remain friends, though I will always love her.

My heart beats faster with each second the silence goes on. Did he not hear me? Can he no hear me? I curse myself internally for being so ignorant. I was raised with enough sense to treat everyone with respect despite who or what they may be. That’s the problem though, isn’t it? It’s still us and them and just like everyone else, I’m looking at him as different than me. “I’m sorry.” He laughs softly as if to say he’s heard this all before. I don’t often feel boring, but I do now.

I smile up to her. This beautiful woman and I are not very different. Neither of us are looked at for what we are. “Don’t. I was lost in a memory.” I lift my hand and gesture to the bar. “Please.” Through her painted face and glossy hair, I can tell her age by her response. She is as skittish as a doe, a steady woman not used to being unsure. “I’m Nick.”

I can feel the beads of sweat growing on my neck. My hands are clammy and I rub them nervously against my dress as my eyes follow his hand. I know I should say something, do something, respond, but my mind is a blank void until he says his name. I don’t know what changes, but as my eyes turn back to his I want nothing more than to smile. “Betty.” I step forward with my chin against my shoulder, looking back to make sure he has followed.

Her hair is swept off her neck in a beautiful French twist. When she turns to me, I am aware her eyes are ice blue. I’d follow her to the end of the world if she asked me. I can feel my heart to speed as I grow nervous. I chuckle to ease the situation and roll to her side. “You’ll have to order my drink for me.”

His smile is crooked, both corners of his eyes wrinkled. It’s still strange to look down to him, but I know he’s trying to put me at ease. “I’m sorry.” I tip my chin forward, my smile now reserved for the bar. Just a small motion sets the shorter strands of my hair falling forward. I push them back and turn with my cheek still pressed against my hand. “I’m sorry. You’ll need to help me through this.”

I want so badly to offer her my hand, I have to stop for a moment and ask myself why not. Because I’m in a wheelchair? Because we just met? Time is precious and I have so little left. “Forget the drink.” My voice is too somber, I see it in her wide eyes. “I’ve offended her and my only grace comes in the form of a smile. There’s not even enough time to explain all this to her. I wouldn’t even if I could. “Betty?” My eyes are up to hers, and my hand is balanced on air. “May I have the last dance?”

Though I don’t understand it, and skipping to the end makes me sad, I take his hand. “Yes.” My bobbing chin said it before I did, but I’m compelled to say it again. “Yes, Nick. You may.” I follow at his side to what will be our dance floor. I don’t know this man, I don’t know what game he may be playing. I should be wary, and I am, but the moment is distinctly bittersweet. The piano plays Chopin and we dance.

Attempting to enter school again after so long away put me in a special class, as an older student the acceptance path was different. While this didn’t excuse my poor performance in the past, it did allow me feedback on my application. The good news is, my essay was golden. The bad news is, Columbia would like me to attend a community college for a semester or two to prove I could handle the rigorous course load an ivy league education includes. Hence, the following, my autobiographical essay that almost secured me a spot at a prestigious university.

Let’s be honest, talk as people, and reveal ourselves intimately as friends do. I am a liar. My art, my work, and my passion is writing. I take strands of characters and fabric made of place and spin them into a story that aspires to feel like it’s happening next door. I strive to spark wonder that if you looked a little closer at the neighbor’s smile you might find there’s more to Mr. or Ms. Jones. I write about location with hometown love, naming streets and describing places I have never set foot. I have made this more than just my business, by making it my life instead. I write. From stories that live in one paragraph to those that build in pages that may never have an end, I write. I am a writer, and I’ll confess, until now I have been naive enough to believe I didn’t need to go to school to achieve more.

My name is Jennifer Collis. I was born August 12th, 1987 in Saint Paul, Minnesota. My mother worked in the food service management industry before transitioning into running her own business in the same field. Throughout this time my father maintained his long term position as an Auto Worker with the Ford Motor Company, working forty to fifty hours a week. For the most part this left me on my own, or under the care of my grandparents. I am an only child and I learned from a young age how to entertain myself. When I was a little girl between the call of “Bedtime!” and the witching hours, I’d stay awake plotting histories for my collection of stuffed animals. The labs were all siblings, their leader was the dalmatian I received when I was in the hospital for nearly half of the year in second grade. Even my baby blanket played a role.

As the years went on my mother’s business grew and prospered. Ninety percent of the year she was out of state. Most of the time we communicated by phone until our family had the privilege of visiting during school breaks. I won’t sugarcoat the history that made me. Not having my mother around through my adolescence was difficult. Our family unit took a hit, I acted out, and it was a long time before things took a turn for the better. After switching middle schools to rectify the issue, I was back to my old behavior in my freshman year of high school. I didn’t know how to deal with my emotions, nor the changes I was going through, and unfortunately this lead to behaviors I can say I do regret. Self medicating through my depression resulted in a stint through inpatient and outpatient psychiatric care. What I missed during the time in school, I made up for tenfold in what I learned about myself and others. Our family worked through therapy just as much as I did and we still use the methods learned to this day. For a twenty-three year old, I feel more connected with myself than many of my peers. I attribute my maturity to this period of my life. Though I can’t change my high school transcripts or gain back the friends I lost, I’m a better person for learning the meaning of what it is to survive.

When I returned to my high school I felt the need to implement change in my world in the same way I had in my personal life. While I am not gay myself, a good deal of my friends at the time were and many were struggling to feel accepted and safe at school. While faculty was doing the best they could to police the halls and resolve issues, I felt a true change would never occur without education on the issue. With research online, and contact with local chapters, I came to the conclusion that a Gay-Straight Alliance (GSA) could be the solution our school was looking for. I proposed this to my principal and was met with a negative response. Though our school supported other lifestyle groups such as those pertaining to religion, they were uninterested in allowing a club of this nature to meet on school grounds.

Throughout my life, if nothing else I have been persistent in the pursuit of what I feel matters most. Whether it was a toy I wanted and needed to find the funds to purchase, or a job I knew I could succeed at despite my qualifications, I fought passionately. The GSA was one of these issues and I refused to take no for an answer. I got in contact with legal counsel who volunteered their time to this exact issue with other schools in the past. Additionally, our state newspaper, The Star Tribune, published an article on the challenges our club faced in forming. The pressure was enough for the school board to relent, and with our Advisor in place we were allowed to begin meeting. Our overall mission was tolerance and change. On a smaller scale, the club allowed for a safe place to meet and share feelings in a safe environment. I’m proud to say the legacy of this club lives on today and the GSA continues to meet regularly.

The later half of my high school career was in when I finally started to come into my own. Having advanced through math early, I had the opportunity to focus on more electives as the years went on. By choice, instead of art or music I decided to focus my energy in the English department. From poetry, to film study, every offering is reflected on my final transcript. It wasn’t enough to write stories for my friends or fill their yearbook pages with my imaginative stick figures and witty prose. I needed the outlet of regular writing assignments to feel comfortable and even those projects occasionally turned into behemoths under my pen. I still remember writing a myth for class until the last possible minute it could be turned in because the story wasn’t finished in my head. Stories and characters stuck with me. Little did I know how much this would continue throughout my life.

Following high school, I was accepted into the undergraduate program at the College of Saint Catherine. Though my early school performance had been hindered by my personal issues, combined with my application essay and interview, I was allowed entrance on a restricted schedule. The intent was to meet academic requirements to establish repertoire, for which a full time schedule would then be permitted. Unfortunately after my first semester of study I was unable to complete funding and not permitted to register for further courses until payment could be made.

School was not in the cards for me at this time and I decided to enter the workforce full time as a Global Trade Representative at US Bank. Though only a temporary position for half the year, I worked closely with high profile clients to execute multimillion dollar equity exchanges in the global stock market. Nothing in my past had prepared me for this position and yet I put my all into my performance throughout my tenure with the company. The customer service I learned has been invaluable and allowed me to continue to pursue further careers in related fields.

In 2006, I completed a temporary assignment with the Ford Motor Company as they downsized to cut costs within the Saint Paul manufacturing plant. When it was decided the plant would remain open longer than a year as previously determined, I felt it was time to move on to other opportunities. Without school to fall back on for my literary interests, I had continued to write by meeting with my peers in regular writing groups. By the time I finished with Ford in 2007 I had begun to write daily, a habit which continues in present day. I yearned for a position that allowed me more free time to focus on my own self improvement while still aligning with my professional goals for growth and development. It was at this time I accepted a position with Apple, where I would stay for the next three years.

What started as a part time sales position over the holidays quickly grew into a full time role as a trainer, working with customers to improve their technical skills. In my second year of employment, I found a need for more guidance within the employee development program and focused my time on improving the system to better serve both the employees themselves as well as the management team.  As the team leader, I successfully managed employees as they worked on training to further their careers. This position developed my leadership skills which reflected upon my team as well. It was through this success I began to facilitate new hire training in the market by leading week long seminars on core values necessary to succeed in the constantly changing field.

I had finally started to reach a level of responsibility that I felt challenged and content with professionally, but as my third year with Apple came to a close I was offered the chance to fulfill a lifelong dream. Traveling with my mother from a young age gave me a travel bug I never could shake. From the minute I graduated high school, I dreamt of what could happen if I had the guts to walk away from it all. I wanted to study internationally, spend time in a place I’d never been, live, and of course, write. I truly believed that if I took the plunge despite my reservations, I would finally start to see the changes in myself I also desired.

It was in the summer of 2010 that the pieces finally fell into place, and I resigned to spend a working holiday in Australia. It was the best nine months of my life. I finally well and truly left home to stand fully on my own two feet for the first time. I lived in a small town two hours inland from Melbourne on what many would consider a farm. Staying with a close friend, I experienced what it was like to be part of a family interested in harness racing by attending regular meetings and cheering the stable through to the finish line. I didn’t write as much, but I lived. Before departing on my international adventures, I read a quote from a first time marathon runner. To paraphrase, the interviewee said, as soon as you do something you felt was impossible, you open the door to a whole world you never knew existed before. I finally knew what it meant to live outside of my own world and I knew that I couldn’t put off the rest of my dreams any longer.

My whole life has been about writing. I’ve never been able to get away from it, nor would I want to. Though I’ve invested my time and labeled myself as a writer, I still know in my heart that my training is incomplete. Writing with my peers accelerated my skills in the past five years and though I still enjoy participating in my group, I feel I’ve begun to exhaust my resources where it is concerned. This is why I have turned to the General Studies program at Columbia University. As it’s been over five years since my last educational experience, I am a nontraditional student and I believe my varied past will compliment the student body well. My pursuit of a top school for writing majors, lead me to Columbia and through my research I am confident the program and faculty is second to none. This is the challenge I need. It’s time for me to pick up the baton and run the next part of the marathon through my characters and the stories they provide. I sincerely hope my future lies with this institution and I thank you for your time.

A dear friend wrote me a note in their holiday card this year,

“Please keep writing – force yourself to, fight with yourself for it.”

I’m making these postings with the hope I’m prepping towards a new project for the year ahead. I hear 2012 is going to be a powerful year. Are you ready?

I remember the night he actually passed. He’d been on morphine for a day or two, the pain too much to bear so he was in a drug induced coma. In a hospital bed they’d made in the formal living room of his home, he laid sleeping, moaning from time to time. My cousin Chris and I sat by his side, our mothers out for a break and sharing a cigarette. The room was so quiet, the only noise the Mexican music we decided to play for him just a few minutes before and his sleeping breaths. I’m crying now as I write this even if it was years ago. I laid on the couch by my grandpa’s side that night, breathing in when he did and breathing out the same way. I don’t know why, I don’t know if it had meaning or not, but I felt it was important. Then he stopped. I didn’t move, though I knew he wasn’t breathing. Neither me or my cousin did, until he decided to make it real.

We had to call our large extended family, immediately pass on the news that my grandpa had died. It was like a blur, unfeeling, unaware of the weight of the moment at the time. We got from night into morning with a strong will and not much more. It hit me later, like a train running off it’s tracks. As the funeral was planned and his ten children decided to take a different path from the wishes he laid, I grew angry and it wasn’t something I could nor wanted to handle. He was my grandpa, and he couldn’t fight for himself anymore, but nobody wanted to listen to me either. I felt like falling apart, I think for a short amount of time I did. I remember being so distraught I checked myself into the Emergency Mental Heath Center. I scared them by not wanting to kill myself. I just knew myself well enough to know that I needed a safe place and someone to talk to. Going there did that and it provided me with a therapist I saw for awhile. It helped.

I miss grandpa. He’s the only real big death I’ve had in my life so far. I grew up with him, I got in trouble with him, I saw the world by his side. My parents often left me with my grandparents for various reasons, holidays, dates, summers, etc. I remember lying on the floor and playing foot wars with my grandpa. We’d press out feet sole to sole and push to see who was stronger. We watched the Miss America pageants together, we’d ring in the New Year and drink sparkling grape juice. Everyone still tells the story of how the “mean old man” let me put make up on him just so he could watch what he wanted to on his TV. As I got older, he took me to the casino when I was 16. He told me to wear make up and had me use his frequent players card. He said if they asked, my name was Ramona Zamora. Nobody did, and that day I won so I had to treat at the buffet. He went on many vacations with us, a road trip to Mount Rushmore, where I was 86′d from a convenience store was one. I walked in like I owned the place and said he was paying. After I split a soda that wasn’t going to fly. We went to Vegas, we went on cruises, he told us stories that included lines like, “…and it almost made me cry.”

From that first Christmas without him to this one, it has never ever been the same again. My earliest memories are of my grandparent’s basement. The whole family would gather there, everyone in town, sometimes those who came up just for the holiday. All my cousins were there, we played mexican music and Grandma cooked rice and beans. I remember how drunk the adults would get and my grandma still reminds how I used to say I’d never be like them. Of course I am or she wouldn’t still be reminding me. The kids would play and Grandpa would yell at us about going upstairs, but we always did. We’d watch TV and I’d sit in his chair. A guy from my dad’s work would come dressed as Santa, sit down and give out a gift to each kid who came to sit on his lap. It was the only present other than my Uncle Ray’s I got to open on Christmas Eve. The big event of every year was the presents being passed out. Even when the celebration was no longer at my grandparent’s house, Grandpa was the one who sat down and yelled out the names, handing out all the presents this huge family had to give away.

It wasn’t the same when Grandma and Grandpa grew too old to host the party. My cousin Richard and I used to talk about how much we wished we could do it there again. We’d even help, cook, clean, whatever, just for that childhood memory we held so dear. Christmas shifted to my Uncle’s house, and then when my Grandpa died, we had one last holiday together and now not at all. It doesn’t even feel like Christmas anymore. December 25th might as well be any other day to me. I don’t care about the presents, I don’t are about the food, or the cookies either. I could give it all up and not feel I was missing a thing. I know someday the holiday will have meaning again, but for now it doesn’t. It’s the day I miss my grandpa, I miss our family, and I sort of miss the way things were too.

I’m happy to have my adopted siblings who sit with me and play games or watch movies while the “adults” talk and listen to their music. I’m happy for some tradition, even if it’s not warming to my heart just yet. But most of all, I’m excited for a future. My grandpa is the person I’m honored to be the most like. We shared a passion for travel, a stubborn attitude, a big but hidden heart. I’m like him, and I know that I am. I just hope to someday know I’ve really made him proud.

Happy Holidays to you and yours. Cherish them, because they are guaranteed to change, sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. I’ll see you in January.

My savior has been and remains to be Tuesday. After waking up at 10pm on Monday, I head to work at 8am, and barrel through the day with an eventual bed time of 6pm that comes smoothly and easily after the confusion of the weekend. It puts me back on a schedule effortlessly. I fall asleep and wake eight hours later without an alarm, rested, comfortable, and ready to go. Work is the key, or purpose really. If you’re not prepared to schedule a good portion of your life or have it scheduled for you as working outside of your home and for someone else does, you’re bound to fail. The 28 hour day gives you 20 hours to sit around and ultimately do nothing. I can’t begin to tell you how much more television and moves I’ve started to watch even though I still only tune into things once or twice a week. I’m grateful for this side effect, there’s a lot of media I’ve now been exposed to that I otherwise wouldn’t have, but I see it’s downside clearly. 20 hours for productivity could quickly turn into 20 hours of nothing, and 20 hours of nothing makes it a lot harder not to settle in for some sort of nap and then you’re schedule’s shot and you’re out of the game.

Another topic often brought up in the short life of this blog is food. I’ve become very dependent on caffeine. I don’t believe it’s a dependency based on the need for energy or to stay awake as it’s something I usually need at the beginning of the day and only then. It’s gotten so bad, that at times I can feel the headache and cloudy head feeling first thing, until I drink a glass of soda to start my day and suddenly feel fine again. It’s terrible and I realize that, but I have a theory it’s a chemical my body an rely on as a cue since I’ve taken so many others away. Perhaps that’s crack science, but it sounds really good, doesn’t it? There’s probably even a wikipedia out there to back this up if I looked hard enough. As for actual food, it’s still a work in progress and most of the time I feel rather blah about it. I eat it because I believe I have to if I’d like to survive. I’m not crazy about my intake though and the choices one can make for food at three in the morning are never satisfying. I’m definitely curious to see what I learn at my upcoming doctor’s visit later this week and where this piece fits in.

Last but not least, time. I’ve given up on making sense of what day it is all together. I’m consciously aware of the date as I’m living it, but I don’t try and conform the separations of time to the way I’m living them. I call Tuesday, Tuesday, even though my Tuesday started the day before. Since the missed day of doing six day weeks instead of seven seems to happen between Saturday and Monday, I think it probably accounts for some of my time uses during the weekend. As discussed earlier, work solves this problem nicely. It’s Wednesday cause I worked yesterday, I have to be leaving for work at this time, I get off then. Sleeping 8 hours can be tough. Keeping any strict schedule of when you go to bed and when you wake up can be tough. There’s simply not enough time in any day. When you get on a creative roll, it’s inevitable that some part of life will get in the way, sleep or otherwise. There’s a chance this blog may be coming to a close, or at least the 28 hour aspect of it. I’m crossing all my fingers for this possible opportunity to come to fruition and if it does there definitely won’t be a way to keep up with the schedule. I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t mind seeing the 28 hour day go in favor of something else in life and maybe that’s where the real lesson is learned.

There’s nothing all that important about, well, anything. We give things weight but assigning emotions to them, not because they come packaged that way. Just as they say only you can make yourself feel guilty, only you can really make yourself feel happy as well. All else failing? Knock on wood! We’ll keep in touch.

Wikipedia.com

In European folklore, the witching hour is the time when supernatural creatures such as witches, demons and ghosts are thought to be at their most powerful, and black magic at its most effective. This hour is typically midnight, and the term may now be used to refer to midnight, or any late hour, even without having the associated superstitious beliefs. The term “witching hour” can also refer to the period from midnight to 3am, while “devils hour” refers to the time around 3am.

And since occasionally Wikipedia fails us and we must call upon the children, Yahoo Questions:

3 am is considered the “devil’s hour” because many deaths usually occurs between 3-5 am. A study was conducted as to why more deaths occur early in the morning (but before sunrise) compared to any other hours of the day or night. It was discovered that your body and your immune system is actually more vulnerable between 3-5 am.
If a very sick patient had terminal illness, they would usually pass away early in the morning when their body is at the weakest point. Same explanation applies to any person whose got into a serious car accident, they may survive the accident if it happened during the day (that is if there were any chances of survival, this theory does not apply to people who died instantly after the car collision, it only applies to patients who were rushed to the hospital). The human body is the strongest at certain times of the hours during the day and if they were lucky, their body could fight to stay alive, however, if the accident occurred early in the morning (like Diana, Princess of Wales who died hours later in hospital at 4 am) the survival chance is very minimal.

This concludes your impromptu educational moment, kind of like Sesame Street but less informational and more designed to help you on a game show someday.

So I’ve got it in my head that it would be really fantastic to write a highly glamorized smoking scene, the kind that makes you want to light up more than anything just to get that same high that’s being written like it’s a drink of water after a day in the desert spent parched. The problem with this idea, ignoring morals and all, is that I don’t smoke. In fact, the one time I tried smoking I didn’t really inhale and I didn’t really think it was all that great. Like the high school health class posters warn, it’s kind of like licking a butt, or what I would imagine licking a butt is like considering I have not done that either. Perhaps writing a scene that makes you want to smoke a cigarette while never smoking one in real life would be a testament to my writing though? We’ll have to see on this. I feel like it has the possibility to be a really good humor piece to actual smokers instead. “She said WHAT!? Oh, that’s precious! Just hilarious!” The voices in my head stand around and drink bourbon out of a bottle in a brown paper bag and laugh a lot. (I’ve never drank bourbon.)

In sleep news, it’s 3am! Did I mention it’s 3am yet?! Since I went to bed good and proper at 6pm like every 28 hour day want to be scientist should, I feel glorious this morning. Out of bed right at 2am without the alarm clock and I’m feeling like a ball of witty humor that’s probably not all that funny to anyone else. Sigh, at least I always laugh at myself. This blog is entirely inspired by this mood with the hopes that I will shake it like a polaroid picture and get on with the writing assignment from above. Work is a midday event today, I forecast a bedtime that comes all too soon and an unfortunate tomorrow. I really do not enjoy waking up at 6am like ever. I’ve definitely learned that I like time before I go to work in the morning and a lot of it, it just makes things feel a little smoother than if I don’t.

Music from 1996 on my radio, caffeine in the form of a fake carmel colored substance in my hand and it’s time. I could spend more time rambling here, but there’s precious hours to spare and things to do. Possibly a love letter to cigarettes to come soon.

I don’t know what to say about sleeping on a 28 hour schedule. It’s as crazy as you would assume it to be. Be prepared to hear how insane you are, how stupid, how naive. Unlike something more sensitive like what you’re wearing or how you style your hair, nobody is ashamed of telling you their true feelings on the crazy project you have decided to take on. I take all these comments with a grain of salt and tell myself like that chick who wrote Julie and Julia, “I have readers! I can’t let them down!” I really care about the two or three of you who are reading this, no really, I do. The little ticks on my statistics chart of how many views my staked out claim for space on the internet sees makes me strangely happy in a way that I can’t explain. Plus, who doesn’t like to dream that maybe someday something profound will be found here and inspire big things like a magical book deal and a movie where I am played by a celebrity who looks nothing like me? I better look into who’s really good at playing not all there and looking worried. I think I look worried a lot.

You ever have those moments where you feel absolutely fine, but someone leans over, touches your arm, and asks you, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” You laugh awkwardly and assure them you are, but really, in the back of your mind aren’t you wondering what part of you made them inspired to ask you such a question?

Maybe I shouldn’t put these thoughts on the internet.

I’ve just finished watching New York, I Love You at four in the morning. Waking up at midnight will do that for you. The film is based of it’s predecessor Paris Je T’aime and uses the same concept of multiple directors telling their separate stories around the town the film is named after. While the original has clear cuts between and announces each segment by detailing it’s directors, New York, I Love You intertwines everyone and everything in a strange way that I feel is appropriate for the city. We meet two characters in a cab, we see them again later, eventually their different stories come to be and then they disappear again until some remnant of what had happened, another character, etc, shows up somewhere else in another in between that sets the stage for something else. Now that I think about it, one of the opening lines of the movie is about how New York really isn’t that big and they played off the idea brilliantly.

Ethan Hawke’s portrayal of a writer was brilliant as always. I’m convinced he’s meant to play the Jesse character from Before Sunrise/Before Sunset forever. He has a way of rambling that’s second to none. This time over a cigarette, a huge crucial prop in the film, he meets a woman and they share a moment over sharing a light. He talks her into the idea of him, of how she could come to bed with him, how they can’t deny this connection because they could never see each other again. She waits through her entire smoke to tell him she’s a hooker then gives him her card. Bradley Cooper shows up in several taxis before he has his moment. There’s a girl on a train talking about how it shouldn’t have happened, it was a one time thing, he’s doing his own internal dialogue about the moment while they both have flashbacks to the scene. They’re meeting again to prove it was just the alcohol, when she finally shows up they get right in a cab and kiss the whole ride.

The whole movie is set up this way and really when I think about it as a whole, there’s little substance, but it’s strangely enchanting anyway. Unlike Paris Je T’amie it didn’t fill me with a warm feeling of love at the end and make me want to rush out to Paris for all it’s romance, but I really couldn’t stop watching it either. It really made me want to have a smoke as it seems like all the stories were really happening out there. It made me want to study the people and strange culture of a large city like New York, but it wasn’t a romance like Paris was and maybe that’s because New York isn’t a romance like Paris is either. I wouldn’t buy it or recommend it for Valentine’s Day as some are apparently trying to do, but I would say see it if you’re looking for something interesting to think about or if people intrigue you, or maybe if you just really enjoy smoking.

I wonder if the connections you make with a cigarette in hand really do aid in the addiction at all. As a second hand smoker, I don’t think the movies over glamorize the idea. There’s a culture there or at least from the outside looking in there appears to be. Like a secret little society you bond over your shared dirty secret. Smoking isn’t glamorous anymore, you’re pushed outside now to do your “shameful” deed and something about nicotine is so wonderful to your brain you go out there despite the fact that it’s below zero and probably snowing. If you can’t at least share a conversation with the other people who understand this need, then what do you have? For the few minutes you both breathe in a mixture of fresh and chemical enriched air, it’s okay to say anything because when it’s done, you’ll both walk inside and go your separate ways. I like the idea of that. Maybe I’ll write a scene about smoking and keep the idea that it’s cool alive.

This is by and far the most disjointed blog I’ve put into fake print yet, but I can’t bother myself to start over or delete anything. Strangely enough, I can’t be bothered to stop a lot of the things I’ve said lately, it has to be a side effect of the sleep deprivation sleeping eight hours and still missing a day a week thing does to you. This is what I set out to accomplish though, isn’t it? One of my problems in the dream to someday be a writer is the fear I’ve been hiding behind. I can write for days behind the mask of somebody else because the pitfall of failure isn’t nearly as deep when nobody really knows. I can also spend a great deal of time writing nothing because it just doesn’t seem right. Is the final product after waiting better? Probably, but I’ve lost a host of thoughts in the process by censoring myself into a box that seemed nicer. If by sleeping abnormally, I’m losing the filter that keeps my work tidy, I say so be it. Let’s continue this experiment a little while longer and see what really happens. I can sleep someday and edit this mess later, at least I’ll have a mess to edit.

I should really avoid the Chuck Palahniuk section of Barnes and Noble today. If you know me in real life and I’m getting near it, hit me. If you don’t know me, tweet or something. It’s for the better.
Also, if you see anyone in a coffee shop, on the train, sitting at the bus stop, scribbling furiously into a notebook? Give them a smile. You might not understand them, but the people who look at this world a little differently? They’re the ones that make it more than just another nine to five.

Operation of the week: blog more. somewhere.

chaos |ˈkāˌäs|

noun

complete disorder and confusion : snow caused chaos in the region.

• Physics behavior so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions.

• the formless matter supposed to have existed before the creation of the universe.

• ( Chaos) Greek Mythology the first created being, from which came the primeval deities Gaia, Tartarus, Erebus, and Nyx.

ORIGIN late 15th cent. (denoting a gaping void or chasm, later formless primordial matter): via French and Latin from Greek khaos ‘vast chasm, void.’

“Only in chaos can there be creation.” I swore I heard that once, or there’s also a strong possibility that I made it up, but it sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it? Pretty much all of mythology and religion to some extent is based on this theory that out of chaotic nothing came something grand and important.

Wikipedia.com

Nevertheless, the term chaos has been adopted in religious studies as referring to the primordial state before creation, strictly combining two separate notions of (a) primordial waters or a primordial darkness from which a new order emerges and (b) a primordial state as a merging of opposites, such as heaven and earth, which must be separated by a creator deity in an act of cosmogony.^[3] In both cases, chaos refers to a notion of a primordial state which contains the cosmos in potentia but which needs to be formed by a demiurge before the world can begin its existence.

To have something, you have to start with nothing. Reason #402 for doing this sleep experiment is creativity. Some of the greatest artists in the world were crazy. In some way, shape, or form, there was something “wrong” with them. Drugs, and from what I remember of a VH1 special on LSD and weed, gained ground by opening people’s minds to artistic development. People seek that place outside of the ordinary grind where creation comes from. Screwing around with your circadian rhythm, while outside these usual norms, is a nice way to go insane. Science is more than happy to warn you of this fact. You’re messing with nature! Biological cues need a regular schedule! Etc. Etc. Yes, we get the point, science. We just don’t care.

Sunday into Monday, otherwise known as Day 9, was the first day I started to think about not doing this anymore. It was 1pm in the afternoon, almost time to go to bed, and I just didn’t want to. This isn’t to say I wasn’t exhausted, I was, I just didn’t really know if I wanted to do this whole strict sleep/wake schedule anymore. No good logical reasons, no thoughts, I just didn’t feel like it and then I went to bed at 2pm just like I was supposed to. Turn around, morning comes, and things were fine again until last night where the thought passed my mind again. There’s a strong possibility this is a call to be wary, but I’m ignoring it for now. I still feel a lot better during the day then I have sleeping in other ways and I still appreciate the extra hours in my days as well. I think this niggling thought, as with all things, is simply me trying to get out before things really get going which is where the chaos idea comes from. I’m currently living in the land of telling myself that this, although crazy and possibly leading towards my demise, is a good thing for my creative soul. I haven’t rolled out any actual stories yet, but I feel more creative. There was the Australia Day photo project, some writing here and there, this blog. Ideas are bubbling and if the idea of chaos is true, then couldn’t there possibly be more to come? When you hit that place where your mind is free to roam without societal tie downs and self doubt you open yourself up to the chaos that can breed creation. You have to go insane to find sanity, hit the lowest of lows to find up. To know one extreme is to define the other and I hope in doing this a light illuminates something under the surface that’s been waiting for this moment.

“You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.” – Nietzsche

In other sleep related news, either I’m ill or I’m starting to lose my appetite, which is okay with me considering how much I ate last week. I’m just not feeling it lately, which I’m sure you all wanted to know, but hey, this is partly a science wannabe blog. Food? This proposed side effect to the 28 hour day started yesterday. I kept trying to get behind eating a meal but I really wasn’t ever interested in it fully and as I start today, I’m still not. Breakfast was a sorry attempt at some noodles and I do mean sorry, but my giant coffee mug of Pepsi deliciousness went down great! Maybe I can just find some way to live off that. I know, I know, I have to eat. I’m going to keep trying. It’ll sort itself out too? I’ve got some epic plans for grapes and a cheese sandwich later today. It sounds promising anyway.

Another new theory I’m working on that could possibly be classified under an illness, mental or otherwise, and not as a side effect is mood. Yesterday was also the first day I felt a little less crazy energy, which isn’t entirely that odd. Everyone needs their moments to recharge and get back into speed and there’s a high possibility this was simply that. I’m known for being moody, but we’ll have to keep an eye to the weather charts. Yesterday was quiet. I felt quiet and I wasn’t as into some of the silly jokes I might usually be. I started off the day kind of shaky footed and vulnerable, but it seemed to sort itself out okay. The Foo Fighters went back on the music rotation in the form of the Skin and Bones album, which always makes me happier and added to the calm. I love the raw simplicity of the sounds and strings just sort of went with the day. Today has a forecast for business. We’ll see what happens.

Last but not least, I’d like to make another note on time. I’ve been waking up mid sleep pretty often and feeling incredibly more awake then I should. Take last night for example. I woke up at around 8:30pm after falling asleep at 6pm and found myself confused. I wasn’t exactly sure what day it was, if it was morning or not, and how I had gotten there. Granted, I don’t know about you, but sometimes I don’t know any of these things no matter what time I wake up, especially if it’s mid nap like that, but hey, it’s a valid concern. I know what day it is because the calendar says it, not because my body understands it. I think the rest thing has to do with falling into REM sleep faster just like other sleep modifications such as polyphasic sleep like Everyman and Uberman suggest. Despite the possibility of more restful sleep faster, I am still able to get back to sleep on a regular basis and consistently fall asleep very close to schedule. Time is obviously the biggest side effect in this experiment and needs to be given more thought in the future.

But until then? It’s off to work I go, something that brings a little order to my days that they need. It’s hard to maintain a 20 hour day of nothing and work, oddly enough, has become a nice break in the middle of things. Plus it’s a great way to remember what day it is. It is Wednesday, right?

Day 10… I’m still not entirely sure if that’s right or not.

Writing is the one thing I tell myself I want to do. I want  to do it. I want to believe that I can do it, but at the same time? It’s the one thing I’m kind of the most afraid to do. I’ve come a long way in the years since I’ve made writing my passion. I can remember trying to get in the head of the character and writing things like “Shopping is so great!” Granted I was like fifteen and trying to character sketch someone I knew nothing about, but it was a start. My first stories were generic and often worked off of someone else’s put together idea, but they were stepping stones. I went from a warm safe place that was easy to understand to trying to hang in there with a class of writer’s I felt I could only admire. It’s been a journey to get here, but I think I’ve gotten to a place now where I’m hanging out just below the surface. I know that I could do more, but this place is so nice and comfortable I’m only daring to do it in very small steps.

I don’t want to sound conceited, but I feel like I actually have a talent here. Could I be like those people on American Idol that fully believe they can sing, but actually sound like a mule? Sure, it’s a strong possibility, but in my bones I feel that call like I’m meant to do something. I’m meant to write, I know it, I feel it, but it’s just out of my grasp, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s out of fear. I’ve spent a lot of time recently trying to get outside assurance that I know what I’m doing and I think it’s because I’m daring the air to tell me no, that this is crazy, it’s too much, I should stay where I am.

When my grandpa died, I took it hard and I started seeing a therapist as a way to have somewhere to express my thoughts. My family isn’t very good at sharing and I needed to talk about it and the rest of the things inside my head. My grandpa and I were very close and it was the first real major death I’ve ever had to experience, but I remember a scary thing I said to her one day. In a particularly hard time I started to really deviate from the norm. I wasn’t sleeping well, I was impulsive, I could tell I wasn’t well. I freaked her out by telling her all these things, and she was really rather concerned, but I knew it was all under my control and that’s the memorable part I still come back to from time to time. I really felt like if I wanted to step off the ledge and go crazy I could, it was an open door waiting for me, but I had enough sense to know better.

Writing is that ledge for me. I’ve been toying with the idea for a lot longer than the day or so it took me to decide not to go insane, but it’s a ledge all the same. If I do this, if I were to ever truly commit to it, I’d be somebody else. Seems simple, right? But it’s not, committing to something different is the scariest thing in the world, hell commitment in general is the scariest thing in the world. It’s boxing yourself into a label and even if it feels like it could free you, be the best thing in the world, it’s still a box. So I set up little obstacles to tip myself one way or the other, kind of like russian roulette. Will the gun go off or won’t it? Can I get away with this or not?

I’ve had moments like this with travel too. If you’ve known me long, I used to talk consistently about what I wanted to do with my life and how I wanted to move. I used to have a strong pull to a place in California I’ve never even so much as seen or heard anything about in my life. That moment passed. Whatever was waiting for me in Monterey isn’t anymore, I don’t have that feeling. So what happens if I let this turning point I think is approaching go too?

Somehow I don’t think it’s as easy as taking a class or writing in my free time. I already do these things. There’s something I’m missing. I’m just not sure what.

As I said before, I figured Tuesday would be the hardest day of my journey, and as day three states, it wasn’t. I was tired by the end of the day, going to bed only a half hour after returning home wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t the worse day. Oddly enough the days where my schedule started to match closer to a normal bed time is where I found the most trouble. Wednesday has a bedtime of a very normal and appropriate hour of 10PM with a wake up time 8 hours later at 6am. It’s the normal day. I have two hours before work to get myself situated with life and then it’s off to work I go. Surprisingly enough these were the two days I had the hardest time with. As sleepy as I was, just before that 10PM bed time I got a rush of energy again and there was a list of things I still wanted to do before the night was done. Just like the schedule that got me into this mess it was  a bed time that got in the way of the things I wanted to do. I’m a night owl. I get my swing in the evening. Going to bed at 10PM puts me out of commission at my most functional. And waking up at 6AM? Yeah, doesn’t help either. Two hours is just enough time to be dangerous and still not really accomplish anything but the proper things needed to get yourself to work on time. It’s useless. The low part of the week that’s required to get to the good stuff but not really all that enjoyed by anyone, kind of like Mondays. Who ever rejoices and says, “Thank God, it’s Monday?”

You know, another thing I’ve learned this week is that writing about sleep is boring. It’s like a diet journal and a lot of the time I wonder who’s really going to care. I ate this. Great. I worked out this long. Awesome. Two thumbs up for you. I get I have to do it, it’s the point of this whole blog, but I haven’t really ironed out the ways to not make it sound like a sad text book based all on science. Did I mention I’m really not a fan of science either? I took the minimal amount in high school. Maybe that’s why I feel like a goon trying to talk about facts. I’d make this all up, which is really more my specialty anyway, but then I might have to turn into an alien or something and fall off the face of the planet to “support” my “claims.” Considering the amount of first person accounts on the web following this sleep pattern (none), my coworkers all fully believe that they have all gone insane and are now dead. I still say if I’m going out I want that 20/20 news guy to voiceover my story.

“It all started when the American woman decided to start a new sleep schedule and took up blogging online…”

Imagine the ambiance, the law and order dun dun music, I could disappear in the middle of the night and never be seen again until I show up on Oprah to promote the publishing of my life story, An entirely fake novel optioned for a telenovella on the Spanish channel, just like that other crazy guy’s. Well, you know, minus the whole telenovella part. That would be entirely my thing because the close up drama and yelling is really more my style. There’d probably have to be a Maury taping in there somewhere too just for added effect.

“You are not the father.”

“No, puedo de sar! He has to be the papi, Murray!” And then they run to the back and fall to the floor sobbing every time, EVERY TIME. How does that stuff not get old? I read a comment the other day from someone I know saying it was disgusting the delight people took in watching that show and other’s misfortunes. They’re probably right, but hell, how do you stop watching? Isn’t that what our entire American culture is starting to be based upon? There’s more reality shows on TV now then there is not and the ones that get the most ratings are the ones that satisfy out sick cravings to see someone else’s misfortune. We want to see people tortured in the jungle, shivering in the rain, while some millionaire oil tycoon pours the water out of their canteens. We want to see grown women throw themselves at a guy while consuming liquor like fishes to water and then cry when they don’t get the rose. American Idol is very rah-rah, support people’s dreams, but how does it start? With a weeks long audition process that shows us the worse of the worse. I barely even know who’s going to show up in the top twenty or whatever because most of the time they show you the crappy people instead of the ones that might actually deserve a chance. Is it wrong? Probably, but it’s still the way it is.

I refuse to say we are an entirely  bad population for delighting in trash though. There’s still shows like Extreme Makeover Home Edition and Biggest Loser, because as much as we enjoy a horror show we’re all still looking for happy endings too. We want you to succeed, I want you to succeed, because it makes it seem like maybe someday my dreams will come true too. Isn’t that what America is really about? I don’t know how this all relates to sleep anymore, maybe it’s because I have a hope that this is going to be the breakthrough I need to write my great American novel. I still insist if Stephanie Meyer can do it, anybody can.

Watch out, Edward Cullen. I’m coming for you.

One thing that definitely was not the same was heading into work. For years I have been a person that rolled out of bed with just enough time to dress and get myself where I needed to be. For the past few months I’ve been working a steady 8-5 schedule. Yesterday? I had been up for 7 hours by the time I started getting ready for work and I was more alert than I think I have ever been. The funny thing is, I actually felt less prepared, like I might forget something very important, like my pants. The routine I’d fallen into felt off, I was awake, I was ready to go, but technically this wasn’t morning. The clock said 7:30 am, the red glow familiar and true, but really this was something more like 3pm to my body and it felt like it.

I’d been planning on Tuesday being the worst day from the get go. I had work at the end part of my day, I would have to sleep almost immediately upon returning home, and in general it just sounded rough. I was wrong. Tuesday went well and I even put a fun photo project into play, Happy Australia Day!

All and all things are going good so far and the mission continues on!