I know

It's 230 am and I'm up with Chewbacca. He's having a rough night. My life just fades away in these moments. It's just me and him. I comfort him, then myself. I know the time is coming. I hug him close. He licks my face and I stare into his eyes. "Go to sleep buddy," I tell him. "I'm right here."

This is not a blog I will boost. If someone reads it okay, you've got my broken heart on the page, but this blog is just me telling you, and by you I mean myself, that I'm just so sad.

The sadness is deep. It's in my heart. Inside of it. It's in my bones. They ache with the anticipation of grief. My grief will know no bounds. I'm already preparing. 

Damn it. Why does everything beautiful have to end? I know that it's because there is a pattern to all of this. A hand is drawing the story somehow. It's not my hand. I do believe. On my best days, I do. I do. I promise. So I pray. And ask for some more days. For some more good times. However short they are. For some more moments. 

And then I try and go back to sleep. 

To sleep, perchance to dream

I want to sleep hours and hours. I want to fall into bed and dream of kittens and rainbows. I want to relax into slumber.

But alas, no. This week has again been a stretch to get my full 8 hours. Chewie has to go out often, at times in the middle of the night, and if he's having a bad night, we stay downstairs where I toss and turn on the futon. So my sleep is off. I was groggy yesterday and a little grumpy, but being at work and in court revitalized me until I crashed in the middle of the afternoon. 

I think I used to take sleep for granted. Then came menopause and I would sweat all night. Now post menopause, I shiver all night and toss and turn. 

People don't tell you when you're young, how blissful it is. Nothing hurts. No back pain. You can eat whatever you want. No stomach or restroom complaints. Sleeping is easy. 

Now, at the ripe age of 52, I would give (almost) anything for a few great weeks of sleep. But yet, to have my little fur monster Chewbacca still next to me, at times annoying the hell out of me, is something I'm estatic about, sleep or no sleep. 

Pied piper of creativity

It's 6 am. Per my usual practice, I am listening to some Bowie. He's talking about a star man in the sky. A kind of pied piper to the children. A harbinger of rock and roll. 

I've always been drawn to the idea of other worlds. As a kid, I fell into the Wizard of Oz books. Than the Hobbit. 

I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey in the 1970s. It was one of my dad's favorite movies. He loved Kubrick. I probably heard Bowie's song Space Oddity for the first time in junior high in the early 1980s. It drew me in. The mythical astronaut named Major Tom captivated my imagination. I would picture him in my mind's eye drifting in space. The quiet enormous and vast. Constellations floating by. A little prince of sorts. 

Thinking about this with relation to my creative bursts is interesting. Writing is a muscle. You can learn how to write well. Yet creativity is the adrenaline you need. It's the propeller. The accelerant. The rocket fuel.

I am not always in a creative frame of mind. My best stories come out almost fully formed. They take a lot of pondering. I sometimes feel as if I've lost that spark. Then I find the flame again. Music always helps. Like now. 

So I turn the music up and write. Then write some more. 

Raindrops and more

Rain keeps falling. It's pitter pattering on the roof. I hear the drops hitting the windows. I find the sounds peaceful, almost like a song. 

The rain lulls my mind. I've been up for the last half hour reading Oxford scholarly articles on Hamlet and madness for a research project for class. I find it fun. I keep changing my mind regarding which one to use and summarize for my class.  I eventually decide on one that maps the intricacy of Hamlet's thought patterns.

My mom is here. She's sleeping on the futon snoring as I write this blog on my couch. Chewbacca came downstairs with me and now he's sleeping too.

Life is a funny thing. Life's changed so much for me. I have slowed down a lot. There's many less concerts. Less travel. Less chaos. I have a lot more "at home" time, but I like it. I adore taking a master class in Shakespeare (it's rated as an elective for my creative writing MFA program), although I find it challenging. I do my homework on the weekends and early morning during the week. 

I've learned that I am a natural student, and love school. It's my happy place, and it feels natural. Before I went to law school, I'd considered getting a doctorate in English Literature and I think I would have loved it. Yet, I also think I chose the right path. Is there a wrong path? Or are they just different paths?

The rain is still falling and the rhythm has changed. It's louder. Almost like a drum. Beckoning the listener to tap along. 

 

Melancholy, Madness, Hamlet and My Dog

Dear readers, I've been neglecting you. If you only knew. My dog Chewbacca has been very ill, I've been slammed at work, and I'm taking a Shakespeare class that I am a tad obsessed with.

Hamlet is an interesting character. He's soulful, philosophical and revengeful. He can be callous, manipulative and yet, I feel for him. Life has driven him a bit mad and he's had to suck on a lot of lemons.

You wonder what would have happened had the ghost, or whatever it is, had just left him alone. Prince Hamlet may have had suspicions, but perhaps he would have let them go. His father was dead, but if he'd never received confirmation of his uncle poisoning his father, perhaps he could have just lived his life with his mom and newly anointed stepfather. Would Hamlet and Ophelia be married? Maybe Hamlet would have written a book about philosophy. Would Polonius still be alive, no doubt waxing on and on and on? 

But maybe what Shakespeare was trying to show was that everyone eventually gets their due. All acts have consequences. And all of us must live with our choices. 

I felt a bit like Hamlet this week. Melancholiness is also something I've been dealing with. I'm far from mad but very sad about Chewbacca's health and having to reconcile what's to come eventually. I know, you non dog obsessed people might think, he's just a dog. But he's not. I've spent more than 15 years caring for this fur covered, neurotic, lovable and soulful Shih Tzu.

But life goes on. The sun rises and sets. The world turns. And as Hamlet would say, "The rest is silence."

To be

Today I had jury duty in San Bernardino. It was a rough night with Chewbacca. He's struggling with his health and it's hard. It's been two nights in a row, with only a few hours of good sleep.

Groggy, I drank two double expressos and got on the road by 7:30 am. When I got inside at 8 am, there was already a line. I tried to multi task by calling the vet, and checking my work's voicemail system. 

I started my master class' Shakespeare homework once I was checked in. Stubbornly, I refused to cart the five pound textbook with me so instead, I squinted at a screenshot of act one of Hamlet. And squinted some more. I thought about ghosts and delusions. What they mean or don't mean.

Then I started promoting my podcast. I felt as if I was really using the waiting time in a productive way. Then boom, I was in a courtroom. It felt familiar but not. I knew as a deputy public defender that I was very unlikely to be sat as a juror on a multi-week murder case. 

I was right. Later that afternoon, I was released, free to handle my calendar tomorrow which I still needed to work on prepping. You see, my work as a deputy public defender never really ends. What I can't get to today, must be done eventually, jury duty or no jury duty. To be or not to be is not an option. I must do. And do again. And again.

The Writer

I've always said that as a memoir writer, my character, the narrator, the protagonist, or whatever you call her, is not me. It's merely a version of me that I choose to let you the reader see. Especially when I'm recreating my younger self, I am definitely not that person any longer. So in some ways, the use of first person is an illusion. 

That said, this blog is probably the closest you as a reader will get to knowing who I really am. That's why I do love the use of first person. It's intimate. You're often in my head. Hearing my innermost thoughts. But still, this person on the page is not me because I'm more than that. I contain mountains, rivers and streams. I'm the daughter of a Caucasian truck driving Montana born cowboy, and a Chicana waitress. They both loved music and dancing, as I do. There it is again. The I. The eye. It is all seeing at times. I've been working on a YA fiction novel and the use of different persons and perspectives in fiction is perplexing to me. I'll figure it out or I might just write it in first person. 

Back to the separation between the writer and the narrator. It's an important one. One that takes years to understand. I think I finally get it after all this time. Then it slides away from me and I have to remind myself. You are the writer. You are a writer, in your very soul.

The days after

The days after New Years are what counts. As I've said, every day is a possibility yes, but you need to be able to see them. You need to be able to focus. 

I feel like I've been overextended for far too long. I am having to make some hard decisions and pull back from some things. It's just too too much at times. I hope everyone understands. But it's my life and if they don't, that's okay.

Recently, I've realized that most of all, I need space, time and some open range, metaphorically speaking. I need to be able to breathe and rest and open my creative heart so I can write. 

Yes, it may be selfish. But it's necessary. It's time to really sit down and write my next book. It's time to take care of me and what I need and want most. It's time for me to truly be present in everything I do. 

Now is the time. It's time. Yes it is.