grown up fairytales


11:15 PM

Again, I am up when I should be sleeping. I am not sure what the problem is; I have ceased looking for an answer. It’s just something that’s going to happen for a while, this compulsion to pour out random bits of nonsense when I should be asleep, or trying to sleep.

It’s not so much insomnia. Because once I say what has been on my mind I sleep like a baby. Sadly this impulse never hits me in the middle of the afternoon or in the early evening. I’ve begun taking Otto to bed with me, breaking my own cardinal rule. But it’s much easier to just type and type in bed and be lulled to sleep by the soft glow of Otto’s screen and the sound of my fingers on the keyboard.

Sometimes I think I will wake up and post this all to for all my darling ones to read, but that hasn’t been happening so much. Usually I am just much too lazy, or it’s all forgotten in the rush of the morning. Part of me worries that I can only write for an audience-that I only do it for some odd sort of public affirmation of me as a writer or for public adoration. But those were the same demons I battled with back in the old days of newspapers. I worried I could only write if people were going to read it. I didn�t think I could write for me. Just for the joy of stringing words together.

Now, while I fully realize that people will read what I write at, I don’t care. I don’t care if anyone ever reads it. What I like is the potential. The potential that someone could read what I write. I’ve been scribbling in notebooks since I was 12. Nobody will find those until I am long dead and dusty. But with the web, there is the chance that someone will read it and someone has. Sometimes potential is all we need to keep going. It�s the main motivating factor in my life. Potential gets me out of bed every morning. Potential makes me smile and my blood race.

Potential is what keeps me up late at night, tossing words furiously at the computer screen. Hoping that perhaps someday something shiny and golden will be unearthed. It�s odd to see so many random word documents of nothingness flooding Otto�s desktop. I wish there was a theme, something that could bind everything together, but there isn�t. Just me, I am the tie that binds all these words together.

What�s the oddest about this late night ravages, is that by the time I throw back the covers and fire up Otto what I had wanted write has been forgotten. Tonight I have vague feelings of Vincentness. I was going to write about how sometimes I tell myself fairy tales to get me to sleep. Sort of how the poetess wrote a journal to an imaginary lover. I do that too. It seems so very bold to draw such lines of similarity between myself and Edna St. Vincent Millay, but sometimes I can�t help. While she wrote her fairytale stories of requited love down, I just keep mine locked in my head. Fantasies I keep inside to tell myself at bed, my very own sweet, sappy love stories. In these stories I am always the beloved princess of some man who would give his life for me. This man thinks I am the best. I am a sexy, voracious lover, smart and witty. He wants to hold me and likes that my bed is full of books and cats and flannel. He loves it. In my fairy stories he likes to watch me read before bed. He thinks it�s adorable and interesting; he laughs about how I stole the burnt sienna crayon from the crayon box at mom and dad’s house today. He doesn’t complain about the light being on while he is trying to sleep. I know he�s just an imaginary lover, a fairytale prince I made to comfort me to make me feel a little less lonely, but I don�t mind at all. Sometimes it�s fun to still believe in fairytales.

The CD in Otto isn’t a good one to be listening to on a black and dark Sunday. It�s a mix CD someone made me– someone who once cared about me. Now the songs seem to make me ache just the tiniest bit. Not too much because well if I let all the songs hurt me I think I would have to stop listening to music and really if I think too hard about the replacements sometimes my heart would just crack right open in two and the sad memories are much easier to take than the thought of giving up �here comes a regular� or �nobody.�

Really, I think I should probably find the jewel case that goes with this cd so I can remember who sings the song that goes like this, �this cigarette it could seduce a nation with it�s smoke. Crawling down my tired throat scratches part of me that�s purring, softly stirring.� That part catches me every single time. There is a niggling part of me that thinks it might be Belle & Sebastian. But really I could just be making that up. I do that sometimes.

So I am thinking about entering the Pioneer Press� Community Columnist thing. It sort of scares me trying to enter the land of newspapers again after all this time. Plus I am not sure exactly what I would say on some of the questions they ask. But I think I could rework a column I did for backwash and submit that as a writing sample. It�s really small-town Minnesotay and well, maybe they�d like it. I figure I have as good a chance as anyone else. It just scares me taking such a risk with writing and what not. It�s been quite a long time since I have put my writerly ass on the line. It�d probably be good for me. All this writing has to go somewhere right? It can’t hurt to try and I�ll kick my own ass if I don�t at least try.

Now, after all of this my blood is still pumping-again the potential keeps me up at night. I think perhaps I will get out of bed, make a cup of tea and post this to my silly website. I will play a few hands of solitaire and maybe masturbate again in hopes of calming the ideas floating around in my fool head.

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1 Comment

  1. kaitlin 26.Nov.01 at 8:50 am

    jets to brazil–sweet avenue