It Happened Last Night: Fire?!

It's 4 a.m. I'm sleeping, as I tend to do at such an hour. Suddenly, a pounding at the front door shocks me out of my slumber. And it doesn't stop.

I try to ignore it. I live next to a bar, across the street from an under-construction cocktail lounge, and around the corner from The Beer Store. My neighborhood caters to fun characters, most of whom I'm not interested in hanging out with once I'm in pajamas. I hear low voices muttering outside. I assume it's a team of pizza-delivery boys wondering why no one wants their pizza. Or friends of Boy Behind the Wall who are too drunk to remember that he lives at the back of the house.

The knocking continues.

I eventually stumble into my living room in the dark. I don't want to turn on the lights and acknowledge my post-midnight existence. Flashing lights dance through the blinds. I peak out the window. A fire truck sits in front of my house.

That's when I notice that I have a headache. Not just a sleep-disturbance-induced one, either. And the place smells funny. Like the morning after a campfire. Stale and smokey.

I open the front door, gorgeous in my oversized shapeless shirt and too-short flannel pants. Three firemen stare at me, surprised that someone does, in fact, live here. I have to shout something awkward in their direction before anyone talks to me.

"Someone burnt something downstairs."

Thanks for the clarification, I think loudly before shuffling back to bed, now completely distracted by the stench permeating everywhere.

Not a single alarm went off in my building. This should have disturbed me. For almost twenty minutes, I ignored emergency services at my door. This also should have disturbed me. Instead, I was annoyed that someone attempted a culinary experiment at an hour when delivery would have been far more appropriate. And that the same late-night chef didn't bother to direct the firefighters to the scene of their crime. Only you can prevent Nadine-inconveniencing fires.

What Dreams May Come

Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of the week.

~William Dement

I couldn't sleep last night. Being caffeine-free, I couldn't blame the day's beverage consumption. I wasn't particularly preoccupied or stressed out. I was just restless. I was in bed by 11 and tossed and turned until well after 3.

Needless to say, my Sunday plans quickly adjusted to include a wonderful afternoon nap. (No sleep + no caffeine + 8 little preschoolers running around like superheroes = inability to function.)

There was a really strange moment last night as I lay awake in bed, half dreaming though still conscious. I thought someone was smiling at me. Someone very specific whom I haven't seen for quite some time and who, to my knowledge, has never before stood in my doorway and watched me sleep. (What's perfectly acceptable in dreamland would be quite creepy otherwise.) It was the weirdest, oddly reassuring and somewhat jarring feeling. It was so real and so fleeting. And the moment reality smacked me, I felt really alone. Which I was in the first place.

Brains are weird.

And I refuse to read into any meaning behind this midnight stalker.

I hate how I can rarely relive a good dream. I usually only remember fragments as if the short story was told to me second-hand. It's no longer real. It ceases to make sense. I once dreamed the most gorgeous original song. A song that will never be written, because it faded into nothingness the moment I awoke.

I wish I could revisit dreams just long enough to scribble down the hope and beauty my mind escapes to when my body forfeits consciousness. Or to capture the details into a crazy Charlie Kaufman-esque screenplay. Because I'm never that creative when I'm thinking.

Bad dreams stick with me all day. Even when I can't remember them, they tug at me. I'm shaken up, unsure of what's true, and hoping that I'm not really pregnant. Or orphaned. Or on someone's hit list.

Sleepless in Seattle. Without the Seattle.

It is 1:18 a.m. Boy Behind the Wall has cycled through the world's most intriguing playlist, and now his girlfriend is singing along to something befitting the '90s R&B scene.

I don't know if I should laugh that he was clapping along to "Redneck Woman" or cry over his pathetic rapping abilities. There was a brief shining moment of Amy Grant. An entire Weezer song. An homage to Lauren Hill.....

It will only be a matter of time before the music turns to awkward moaning and I start fantasizing about removing my eardrums with a spoon.

I. Want. Sleep.

I knew I was tired...

...but not THAT tired.

I should have suspected that I was suffering from some sort of severe exhaustion yesterday when...

• I didn't feel the effects of six caffeinated beverages.
• I went to the grocery store to buy eggs and grapes. My fridge was already stocked with eggs and grapes.
  
• My brain cycled through highly unusual and insanely ridiculous thoughts. ("I hope it's not a date. Why do I assume it is? I'm way too charming. I should look into an arranged marriage....")
• I couldn't focus on anything. At all.
• I ate my way through an entire bag of chocolate macaroons without noticing. Until I felt nauseous.
• I took three hours to write the equivalent of a half hour's work.

I woke up this morning to discover that my light was still on. I passed out at some point during my getting-ready-for-bed routine last night. And didn't move for eight hours.

Today was better. Less caffeine, more productivity. I made $68 more writing at home than I would have had I showed up at the office. And I squeezed in three loads of laundry between projects. (I try to avoid the domestic multitasking when working from home, but I couldn't resist.)

It's raining. I'm not at tonight's Sam Roberts show. (All three shows this weekend are sold out. Not impressed.) But Don Draper made me smile, my sheets are clean, and I have no early morning plans tomorrow. Sleep is so good. I think I should embrace it more often.

And so I shall. Starting...uh, soon.

Freelancing Friday Vs. BBTW

I was a writer yesterday. Sure, I've been a writer for a while (the Film Fest introductions happily confirmed this for me), but yesterday I was writing, at home, on a weekday, making money from the written word. And what a beautiful day it was.

I probably have a lot to learn when it comes to productivity, time-management and discipline. I did make myself shower and wear non-pajamas, though. That was a start. And I set mini-goals, most of which were reached. I even made about $10 more than if I were subtitling. So this writing thing might actually be worth it. Once the laptop is part of my life (the Macbook is coming, I promise), I may have to write in coffee shops and libraries instead of in my little abode. Because there's that overwhelming urge to get up and do laundry in the middle of the day. Or watch television. Or do laps in front of the fridge....

It's also hard to distinguish between the workday and the post-workday. How do I walk away and not continue staring at my computer, wasting hours reading blogs and Twittering? And then there are the freelancing issues like invoicing, receipt-collecting and budgeting. Yes, I can write off part of my Internet bill. And the purchase of bridal magazines. The thought of getting organized financially is a little overwhelming.

My writing day did eventually come to an end, and after an evening of laundry and bathtub-scrubbing, I tried to go to bed. But BBTW (Boy Behind the Wall) decided to have a party. At midnight. One that included the blaring of techno music and the shouting of the odd profane phrase. The walls are thin here, and the head of my bed rests against his wall. So I know the details of his life (as I'm sure he knows mine) via auditory experience. Let's just say I am very aware of when he and his girlfriend are getting along marvelously.

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't in the mood to be angry at him either. I briefly considered throwing on a cute dress and crashing his shindig. But I am not a party-crasher. At all. Nor do I want to participate in something that too closely resembles fraternity living.

Instead, I lit a candle, turned on some Baroque music, and read the first twelve chapters of Pride and Prejudice by lamplight.

Ahh, how I heart Mr. Darcy.

I wonder if BBTW knows that his partying brought out the content old lady in me. Or that his adventures provide the writer next door with plenty of amusing material.

Writing Under the Influence. Of Exhaustion.

When I was 12 or 13, I tried to write a letter to a friend. I had stayed up the entire night before and was completely distracted and exhausted as I scrawled what I thought were complete sentences across the page. Fortunately I had enough sense to read what I had written before sending it.

My school and church activities have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.

Yes. I wrote that. (The latter half is a segment of a memorized Bible verse.)

I didn't send it. I have no idea who I was writing to, but if you're out there, still awaiting my correspondence, know that I tried. But the words stopped making sense. And I couldn't remedy the situation with anything but sleep.

I did it again tonight. Not in a letter, but in some quickly jotted research notes.

With a hint of Australia.

It should have said "hint of raspberry."

If I ever send you something written in a state of exhaustion, don't get too attached to those words. I may be unintentionally quoting you a movie line or government statistic. Or telling you what I had for dinner when I really mean I love you. Or, more likely, vice versa.

"It's 3 a.m., I must be lonely..."

"I haven't slept in a year."
~ Trevor (Christian Bale, The Machinist)

How do people go to sleep? I'm afraid I've lost the knack. I might try busting myself smartly over the temple with the night-light. I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things.

~Dorothy Parker

I almost went mad last night. In a Whitney Houston "crack is wack" kind of way. The variety of shaky, unstable crazy that's great for the memoir but dangerous to the brain.

It was 11:15. And like any tired young woman with work in the morning, I went to bed. But I am not "any tired young woman." I did not sleep. At all.

There was no noise to keep me awake. No light. Maybe a little heat. No real stress. No pain. No giddy little butterflies that would keep me from nodding off. Nope. Just hours of blank nothingness.

I've never been so aware of my shoulders. For hours, I couldn't get comfortable, as if I had grown broader and didn't know where to place my head, neck and shoulders in relation to each other. I didn't just toss and turn; I twisted. At one point, I was lying perpendicular across my mattress, which is quite the feat when you sleep in a single bed. I folded my pillow in half. Then I went without one.

There is nothing more frustrating than sleepless exhaustion. Of course, the moment you start stressing about your lack of sleep, the more incapable of sleeping you become.

So I lay there. Waiting. Pretending to sleep. Hoping I could trick my body into actual slumber. By 3 a.m., I was ready to cry. Except that I was too tired to bother. I was overheated, uncomfortable and angry. I contemplated taking a "sleep day," but knew that a project was half-done and couldn't subject coworkers to cleaning up a half-finished mess.

I finally fell asleep. My alarm went off two hours later.

I. Am. Tired. My throat has ached all day. My head pounds. My insomnia was either caused by approaching illness, or it triggered my new suffering.

I should go to bed. But I won't. Not yet. I won't crawl beneath those blankets until I'm completely crash-ready. Delayed gratification, if you will. Sleep will be that much more sweeter when I don't have to think about sleeping. Unless I still don't sleep.

I could always star in the sequel to The Machinist, I suppose.



"It's 3 a.m., I must be lonely...."
The most gorgeous version ever. (Starts at 0:51.)
Although this version is also pretty great.



Can you believe that song was released TWELVE years ago? I feel so old. And tired.

Werewolf Behind the Wall

It is almost 1 a.m. I am not asleep.

The howling. It. Won't. Stop.

The Boy Behind the Wall is a werewolf. Mystery solved.