disquietude
Doubtless inspired by last night's episode of Six Feet Under, I found myself in art class. The teacher was asking us to make posters on the first day, but the process was characterized by a mass of seemingly contradictory and confusing instructions. Her desires were largely expressed as a combination of prohibitions without any clue as to what she would actually accept. There was a multipage questionaire (not unlike a tax document) involved. As I filled mine out, she pressed herself close to my ear and whispered, "good, good." She cited me before the class as an exemplary student, even as I had no idea what exactly she was praising. "[X.] is already on page twelve..." The problem was that I had nowhere to go from there. After page twelve, we were actually expected to make our posters. I watched in horror, frustration, and embarrassment as the other students began to pass me. Worse yet, I glanced over my computer and easel to see that the guy in front of me was producing this fantastically rendered charcoal and color pencil poster (with a really nice use of shadow). I looked to my left and saw a female student was on her second iteration of some sort of space ship, capturing its bluish chrome surface in a manner that I can only dream of. I was still struggling with concept and had drawn nothing more than a rough circle (the beginning of a cog) on my art pad. I also had a cold or sinus problems because my nose kept overflowing. I would go to blow it and the resultant explosion would require multiple tissues and the issuing of profuse apologies to those around me. In desperation, I begin perusing the submitted poster designs of other students on my computer. While there, I distracted myself by glancing at the instant message buddy list. I saw J. was logged on and wondered what he was up to.
Exes have figured prominantly in my head as of late. I am not certain exactly what that is about. I am continually reminded of J. by the Sci Fi Channel's new original mini-series Children of Dune. I think it was roughly two years ago that I flew J. out to California for an extremely busy few days of touring San Francisco and packing before we piled into my old Neon for a cross-country trek back to Virginia. Each night, mind and body exhausted from a day of wandering the streets and a night of boxing up my possessions, we would sit on my futon-couch and attempt to watch the latest installment of the Sci Fi Channel's version of Frank Herbert's Dune. Practically every night, we would fall asleep together like that.
Saturday, I made a wrong turn and ended up driving through Vienna, absentmindedly flicking my new tactical folding knife open and shut. Something about the rundown facades of strip malls reminded me of S., the first time I have actually had a fond reminiscence of him since the month that we broke up. I am not certain what brought it on, some trick of the light perhaps. I remembered our first morning together, sitting next to him in his car as we drove away from a greasy diner. I reexperienced the sense of elation, hope, and security I felt at that moment.
If it is not immediately obvious from the time stamp, I am awake at 4:30 AM. I do not imagine anxiety dreams about art class are traumatic enough to warrant this, so I am laying the blame on a combination of factors. Without a furnace or conditioner to move it, the air is too still. It unsettles me and, along with the temperature (it is probably a fairly reasonable 70 degrees fahrenheit in my bedroom), encourages my predilection to insomnia. For whatever reason, I need the ambient temperature to be cool enough to require a blanket, otherwise my sleep is disrupted; this is one of the reasons why another sweaty body can sometimes make things more difficult (unless we are sleeping in an ice box). If the room conditions are not responsible, then perhaps the growling of my stomach is the culprit. I tend to paradoxically eat less after working out because my appetite is temporarily suppressed. Unfortunately, it subsequently returns with a vengeance and, in moments like this, I bemoan the lack of snack food around the apartment. Finally, I think I just plain went to bed unsatisfied. It was an unsatisfying night to end an unsatisfying day to round out an unsatisfying weekend. I have been having those quite frequently as of late.
Now, as 5:00 AM rolls around, I find myself wondering whether it is worth attempting a return to fitful sleep. My other option would be to actually head into work and try to accomplish something today, particularly since I may be taking some portion of Wednesday off. I have looming deadlines.
But then, I also do not care.
Exes have figured prominantly in my head as of late. I am not certain exactly what that is about. I am continually reminded of J. by the Sci Fi Channel's new original mini-series Children of Dune. I think it was roughly two years ago that I flew J. out to California for an extremely busy few days of touring San Francisco and packing before we piled into my old Neon for a cross-country trek back to Virginia. Each night, mind and body exhausted from a day of wandering the streets and a night of boxing up my possessions, we would sit on my futon-couch and attempt to watch the latest installment of the Sci Fi Channel's version of Frank Herbert's Dune. Practically every night, we would fall asleep together like that.
Saturday, I made a wrong turn and ended up driving through Vienna, absentmindedly flicking my new tactical folding knife open and shut. Something about the rundown facades of strip malls reminded me of S., the first time I have actually had a fond reminiscence of him since the month that we broke up. I am not certain what brought it on, some trick of the light perhaps. I remembered our first morning together, sitting next to him in his car as we drove away from a greasy diner. I reexperienced the sense of elation, hope, and security I felt at that moment.
If it is not immediately obvious from the time stamp, I am awake at 4:30 AM. I do not imagine anxiety dreams about art class are traumatic enough to warrant this, so I am laying the blame on a combination of factors. Without a furnace or conditioner to move it, the air is too still. It unsettles me and, along with the temperature (it is probably a fairly reasonable 70 degrees fahrenheit in my bedroom), encourages my predilection to insomnia. For whatever reason, I need the ambient temperature to be cool enough to require a blanket, otherwise my sleep is disrupted; this is one of the reasons why another sweaty body can sometimes make things more difficult (unless we are sleeping in an ice box). If the room conditions are not responsible, then perhaps the growling of my stomach is the culprit. I tend to paradoxically eat less after working out because my appetite is temporarily suppressed. Unfortunately, it subsequently returns with a vengeance and, in moments like this, I bemoan the lack of snack food around the apartment. Finally, I think I just plain went to bed unsatisfied. It was an unsatisfying night to end an unsatisfying day to round out an unsatisfying weekend. I have been having those quite frequently as of late.
Now, as 5:00 AM rolls around, I find myself wondering whether it is worth attempting a return to fitful sleep. My other option would be to actually head into work and try to accomplish something today, particularly since I may be taking some portion of Wednesday off. I have looming deadlines.
But then, I also do not care.