A long late-night journal entry

I’m sleeping in my new home for the second night in a row. Stet. I’m lying awake in bed in my new home. The current time is 3:06 am on my part of the planet. I say that as though this longitude belongs to me, but from my frame of reference, it does.

I bought new pillows. They are different than the ones I had in the past. I feel like they could be comfortable pillows if I could get used to them. They are thick and fluffy but are not as easily compressed as my previous pillows. My head is too far elevated. Using no pillow, which I am doing as of 15 seconds ago, feels like my body is reclined below the horizontal.  Meaning that without friction and no wall behind me, I would slide backward onto the floor onto my head. But my brain is over compensating. 

I really like my new house. The previous owner was an artist, and he painted the walls with a perfect color palette—mostly grey. (Head back on pillow.) And the people left expensive window dressings on the windows. Plantation shutters, too. And it’s not really so much the colors and windows, though they have a calming effect, it’s something else that makes the house feel good. It’s a feeling that lingers in the air, softly waiting for a host. 

But tonight I can’t sleep. The physical exertion over the week has left my body limp and achy. I have bruises on my arms. And I am tired. Over tired maybe. Over stimulated perhaps. And the in-laws are here tonight. That could explain a lot.

But It feels good to be able to comfortably accommodate so many people. Everyone is sharing in the calm presence of the air. Everyone is happy—a rare occurance.

People are here because tomorrow we drive to college station to watch my daughter walk across a stage wearing a maroon gown and a flat hat. 

There is much to celebrate.

And my youngest tore a ligament in her knee, right in two, and she will have surgery soon. She plays many sports, and she will miss out on them her senior year. She hasn’t shown any emotion about it, and she won’t, but my heart breaks for her because this is a big deal. And her room is upstairs. The entire upstairs is hers during her last year at home, but she won’t be able to go up there for most of that time.

Yet she celebrates in all there is to be thankful for. She and her sister are close; they had to be with all our moves. And so she smiles and laughs in celebration of her sister’s accomplishment.

I now have a cat on me. The cats are claiming their territories, and the areas of control have switched. The tabby, the old lady cat, controls my bedroom, and the other cat controls the upstairs where my daughter is. The other cat sleeps through the night, but this one, the one massaging my neck—the front part that aids oxygenation—is awake all night and requires constant attention. But she’s not the reason I’m awake. I’m just awake.

And work starts tomorrow. I am missing my first day, but I’m not the least bit disappointed. I have three more days of summer vacation, which is three more days than everyone else has. The weekend doesn’t count as vacation for them because it exists within the bubble of the school year. My bubble starts three days from now. But I don’t want to talk about that. I will revel in my three days.

The walls in my new home are bare, but they will slowly fill. I have many blank canvases in my new room—a big front room this time—and I will adorn those canvases, and the canvases will adorn my walls.

The time is now 4:44 am. I have been typing (and editing, though the run-on sentence in the last paragraph and any missed mistakes are still there) with my thumbs on a 2 x 4 (ish) screen.

I am not sleepy.

I felt like I was going to write about an idea, but the idea left me when I picked up the phone. So I have a long journal entry instead. 



Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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