Holding my ground (or maybe not)

I did some writing Sunday! But it includes the margin notes "this is [crap]" and "need synonyms for growing brighter" and what should eventually be three paragraphs are currently three sentence fragments.

I thought about spinning a bit of fiction to relay my current state of mind. It was something along the lines of a woman singing on stage and being directed to hold the last long note of a performance for longer than she ever has before, an act that taxes her oxygen reserves.

That vignette hasn't been written because I can't give it an ending that would satisfy me or the reader. Trying to tack one on would stir up too much bitter sediment in my mind.

Typically, a Marine in my husband's situation would have known nineteen days before graduation where said Marine and his family would be stationed. (Nineteen is an unscientific number, but not an unreasonable one, from what I've gathered third hand.) That nineteen day benchmark was twenty three days ago.

Correct. Reagan graduated from his last bit of training last Friday, and high command has not told him where we will be spending the next five or so years of our lives.

I should be moving right now. Well, not quite. I should be having a few days alone with my husband in a really nice hotel. We should be sipping fruity drinks made with sake right now at Ra. I should be eating sushi, not mashed potatoes and spinach. I should be picking up the keys to our new apartment tomorrow. I should be moving on Thursday. I should be at a flea market on Saturday, picking out a neat lamp or end table.

Instead, I'm with my parents again, spending 20+ hours a day in my room, a majority of them on a computer. Frittering. I have things to do, reasons to do them, just no energy or concentration to get them done.

So in case anyone was wondering...

No, I don't know where Reagan will be stationed.
No, I don't know when he's coming back.
No, I don't know when I will know either of those things.



As much as things suck/are non existent right now, I still wish I was journaling more. But can't find the energy.

Don't think anyting of it.

At first I didn't post because I was Just. That. Busy.

No, that's the primary reason, but not the first one. The first (but secondary) reason I haven't brought any new fiction (or other update) to the table in two weeks is because the next prompt in 3am Epiphany was so easy I couldn't think of what to write. Really. I had many many weak ideas, and though I knew the only way to make one of them strong enough to present would be to start writing and discover what the story was meant to be as I went along.

I finally got over that silly block by putting on some Philip Glass and let it paint the broad strokes of tone. Once again, the strategy was so good that I made it only halfway through the mini-story I expected to write, but already find myself beating out the word count. If it wasn't 6am I'd keep writing, but it is, so I'll try to come back to this prompt tomorrow.

Even on this vast expanse of wasteland, there is only one direction for me to go. I head for the light in the distance. Every time I try to avert my steps and walk into the darkness, the earth seems to turn under my feet and point me toward the tower again. So toward the tower I go.

I've fallen asleep three times on this cracked and dusty ground. Between these periods of unconsciousness, I tread the barren land for untold hours. Two? Twelve? Twenty? Each time I wake up, the tastes of salt and soil in my mouth, I can't remember laying down. All I can do is stand again and put one foot in front of the other, dragging my wagon in the direction of the beacon that never seems to get brighter.

At least the wagon is lighter now. A third of the rations I started with are gone. Too bad the power cell was more than half the payload, even at the beginning of this trek.

I wake up for the fourth time with the tastes of salt and soil in my mouth, and I cannot hear anything. I'm face down on the ground. My shoulders lift once, then droop again. I wonder why my body isn't getting up. In my mind, I stand as far away from myself as I can, and observe in a detached way this prone creature who does not stand, does not move. My hear-rate, already sluggish with apathy, slows more.


Johnny doesn't want to get up for school. His mother is ready to coax the family's sheepdog into jumping on Johnny's bed. She reaches to place a dog treat on her son's pillow, but his eyes snap open, looking directly into hers, and her hand withdraws.

"Time to get ready for school, Jon."
"I went to school yesterday."
"Well, school is open again today, so you have to go."
"I went the day before that, too. And the day before that. And the day before--"
"That was Sunday, you didn't go to school Sunday."
She looks at the clock. No hurry yet. She clears the biggest toys from the middle of Jon's room.
"Sunday doesn't count. Weekends are illusions."
"How's that?"
"They just trick us into thinking the rest of the days aren't the same."
"You've been in the seventh grade for less than three months. Where are you getting this from?"
Jon lies still, watching the line where the far wall joins the ceiling.
"You can't help growing up, Jon, and no one can help summer being over." She leans down and kisses his forehead. "But if you can live through the boring old dull days, you'll make it to another summer."

Jon watches her pick up the laundry basket and leave the room, then looks into a corner of the room and thinks about next summer: the bike trails and pool parties. the barbecues and bonfires. The tree-climbing and baseball-playing under the blazing overhead sun that never seems to set.


When I open my eyes, I am facing away from the light, but still it appears clearly in my mind, dimmer than ever, but undeniable. The image in my head consumes my attention, and I can only see the beacon. When I blink, sight restored, the tower's light remains paramount. I'm already walking, feet already moving under me, subverting my conscious intentions, carrying me towards the tower.

I was numb at first, but not anymore. But I keep going the same way, guided by the only thing I can see... the only thing there is to see.

I love this book. The 3am one. Even a mere 4 exercises into it, I can tell each one has a high replay value.

Things to do:

Read Mouse Guard vol 2.
Write the assignment I've been on for several days.
Start laundry
Paint.
Study some French.
Clean off my bed.
Do yoga.
GO TO BED 30 MINUTES AGO

I think less than three of those things will happen.

Despite all the miles I put on my car, today was a good day. I spent time with Carolyn, both at Ikea and at our usual bookstore haunt, and did a tad sketching at the latter.

Later I jetted out to Alhambra for the weekly drawing session at Nucleus and met Kendra, who was friendly and told me about the drawing club in Glendale, plus made plans with me to visit the zoo on Friday. She has her own couples pass. Awesome!