And that's why people sleep

It's almost three in the morning, and I haven't slept, though not for a lack of trying. I'm supposed to be waking up in two hours to go uptown and work all morning with my mom and sister, and I don't want to, but I don't have much choice. I could say, Puck you, I'm not coming, but then they wouldn't speak to me for a month...or I could pretend to be sick...I was slightly sick yesterday. A tooth is bothering me. As much as it pains me to say it, Dr. Hottie the Dentist may be nothing more than a pretty face. He has destroyed this tooth...filled it, but it's hurting...and it has been for the past three months but I dealt with it. No need to whine about everything, Ash. You whine too much.

I'm tired. May's gotten off to a busy blur of a start. I have Jimmy to do my writerly bidding, though there hasn't been a whole lot of that...just paragraphs here, a page or two there. I keep mixing the paint, but the second I set the brush to the wall, it's too wet...never dries. All dripping to the floor, and I kneel down in some short skirt and I'm all hanging out, and pulling at my clothes, and I can't get comfortable with this computer on my lap...like having a child for the first time and you're trying to balance the paint cans...and you go for the second coat, and your wrist hits the touchpad. You long for your mouse. You try and slide the baby's mouth onto your breast, and everyone's fumbling and tripping about, slipping in the paint you spilt. I'm too tired to clean it up. Too tired to paint the wall. Too tired to sit at a desk. Too distracted to feed my child a snack before bathtime last night, and while in the tub, she says, I'm hungry, and the guilt shoots straight to my overcrowded mind and my blank heart, and my body which feels like someone's covered it in veneer. It's not breathing, this body of mine. The pores are clogged. My skin is stiff, and I can no longer bend. I can't sweat, nor can I mend when cut by toys in the floor I should have picked up, but was too busy thinking of the lack of writing...the lack of blogging, the lack of sex, the lack of longing...and wanting to win a contest I'm not good enough to win, you big ol' whiny chicken. You don't deserve a laptop for writing. And my body's so filled with water and steam, I'm at the point of bursting. On the verge of explosion. Till I learn to rest, and paint, and feed, clean, take care of everyone's needs, and still have the energy for writing, my spontaneous combustion is only a matter of time.

I complain about not writing 'cause you can't paint a wall white if the wall is black. When I haven't been writing, my wall is the darkest black your well-rested mind can imagine. Meanwhile, I pull out those paint cans, and the white is just waiting...if I have been writing, then the wall has been stripped and primed, and I can live my real life without the distraction of sporadic nagging from my mental insides..."Ash, oh Ash...what about this for a title, and this for that, and characters and metaphors...better make a note, Ash. A to-do list. Blog entries. Emails. A short story. Why don't you edit? You'll never be nothing, you're a waste, and you whine...and whine...and sleep, no don't sleep! You're tired, but the insides of the insides of your mind want to write, and you'll be uptown in a few hours with people swarming about the unpainted tables covered with clothes that smell like the insides of an unpacked suitcase from a trip you took six months ago."

I need some sleep.

I need to relax.

I’m packed! Like I've been taking trips, and trips, and once I'm home, I'm gone again...a quick nap...no time to unpack...the clothes stay in and in, and there's no room for more until I finally empty everything out onto the floor...will you help me sort through it? You well-rested, smiling faces...happy families on weekends where daddies are home and mommies are resting, and all the planned-for children are lying on bunk beds well-fed.

I smell camp. So hence the bunk beds...the suitcase brought it back. Being away for a week up north, a vacation from my loud sleepless house...a week with Jesus, and Jesus fanatics. A week with singing, and praying, and cafeteria food so lousy, we ate Chips Ahoy! in our room...on bunk beds. On sleeping bags. Musty pillows. The concrete floors...at night, we stood in long lines with our eyes closed and the people on microphones would say over and over, Let Jesus in your heart, let Him in, He wants in...like some kid locked out of the house when his parents aren't home. He sits down on the sidewalk, and he waits till they drive up from work, and his stomach is growling, and what the hell are you doing on the porch, Jesus? Why aren't you inside, in this house, in your room, all alone? You don't need anyone, Jesus...you don't need happy, restful weekends...you don't need concrete floors...you don't even need to sleep at night, don't you know that, Jesus? You're insides are black with the lack of unpacking. Knock, knock...do you hear Him? He's starving at your door.

I can't sleep anymore...or avoid my writing. I'm not sure what the hell happened with that contest...It was the first thing I wanted in so long, and I swore I'd work my ass off to get it...really write with every word as loud and bright as it could get! But no...I backed down. I got distracted...I wanted something else.

I'm running out of steam. My paintjob is flimsy. The walls look like they've been painted with milk: all thin and watery.

Every day, I plan to set aside some time for myself, but after everything else I do, I'm exhausted by the time it's night, and the baby's in bed...and I'm in my own bed, and if I sleep till she wakes up, then it's right back into where we left off...over and over and over and over, and we never unpack, it seems. Just routine, schedule, work, chores, meals, baths, sleep...no sleep. If I'm lucky, a dream.

I don't want to go tomorrow...I've been so busy, I was hoping to stay home, and rest, and spend time with my child...and then at bedtime, I'd either go to bed and wake up early and write, or stay up late and write. Then sleep in.

I'm so off balance, encased in veneer...I'm suffocating here with my unpacked mind...I fed her muffins at bedtime while I read silly stories. The delay; my head returning to its rightful place. I took my own bath, and washed my hair, put away the laundry, and crawled into bed and read to myself, and then I just laid there...a child on a bunk bed, watching the milk dry. I smell expiration...no, I smell shampoo...it isn't black, it's white, it's black. It isn't night. It's morning. Hours until I go to work for the poor who will swarm, and Jesus he's knocking at nobody's door, because Jesus is sleeping. His people are sleeping. I got veneered with open eyes. Preserved in the state of constant waking. That moment when you don’t know where you are, or how long you’ve been gone. What did you dream? Was it real, was it sweet? Your eyes blink to focus on my tired routine.