Sleep Was Gone and I Snorted a Pixie

The military, namely deployments, breed a sense of constant exhaustion that is akin to an insomniac trying to find sleep in the Alaskan sunlight months. The military is an entity unto itself and devil be damned they will get their pint of blood from you and then some before they notice the haggard and hollowed out eyes, staring vacantly or the stiff limbs stumbling to stand upright. When on home turf, the military is much more relaxed and sleep is just something we have and we have enough of. While on foreign soil, however, sleep because a rarity we search for but rarely find.
Northern Japan, in the winter, when the snow drifts are piled as high as my shoulders, and the light, stringy and weak, makes a pathetic attempt to break through the tightly cloistered, grey snow clouds that coat the sky. Everything is sleepy. The trees are constantly tilted over, just enough, to imitate a worn and weary thin man, with no energy to stand upright. On the streets, the tires of vehicles moves sluggishly through piles of half melted slush, emitting a noise of lack luster affect, whining o be returned to the comfort of a garage where it can rest. I am here, in this drifted white and grey world, surrounded by the crisp essence of a world soundly asleep but struggling in dreams to remain so.
My barracks, the building in which I am roomed with the rest of my company, sits four floors high, a beige and dull building that fades tiredly into the background of winter, the dingy windows staring vacantly across the world, seeing, but seeing nothing. From the fourth floor I wake in the early morning, the world still quiet and dark, and my eyes grit with an exhaustion that runs bone deep. I have slept for five hours, after working a sixteen hour shift, for what I think is the forty-fourth day in a row. I am not positive of the number of days I have worked these hours but I know it has been going on for over a month now and time is blurring with fantasy now. Still, sleep is for the free and I signed my being over to the military more than four years ago.
I slither my body from the comforts of my warm cocoon and half crawl, half stagger, half fall to the tiny bathroom I share with four other women. An hour later I am bundled in an Eskimo like parka, my dark blue uniform, and steel toed boots and am dropping my self down four flights to emerge into the icy pre-dawn air. I have a half mile walk to the hangar where I work. Half of a mile is nothing. I run five miles daily. The difference is that when I run in this frozen world I run on a treadmill. When I walk to work, I am plowing through waist high snowdrifts. Each step is a push of muscles that, by the time I reach my work, has left me huffing and cursing and begging for my bed again. But there will be no sleep. My day has started and I will not be seeing my bed again for at least sixteen more hours – and I still have to walk back through the drifts to reach my bed.
Coffee is supposed to spike my metabolism, lift my energy, and shoot me through with a dash of adrenaline. Spurts of up and go in a 8oz mug of brown, steaming liquid that burns and alerts my senses as it flows down my throat. Coffee used to work. I am up to three pots a day now and it doesn’t tough me. I am still burnt out, lethargic, vaguely aware of my surroundings and clearly aware of the fact that my body is responding to my commands slower and slower each day. From the drawn and haggard faces around me, I know I am not the only one. Several of my co-workers and I pop caffeine pills from time to time but even those do not help very much.
“Candy!” Julie bursts into the tiny workspace, her voice a frantic high pitch, a clear indicator that she too is nearing the end of her rope. She waves her arms around, fists full of candy. “I have candy! Sugar should perk us up.” We have been at work for a little over ten hours now and she dumps a small pile of the sugary toxic hope in front of me.
“I hate candy,” I grumble. “But at this point I am willing to try anything.”
Seven pieces and two hours later it hasn’t helped. Julie has crawled under a counter with sliding doors and pulled the doors shut behind her. Her soft snores break through the steel and wood barrier from time to time. I am staring at the last two pieces of candy in front of me. Pixie sticks. Blech! I have always disdained the artificial, powdery grit in the little orange and pink and blue and red paper straws. But I am a little delirious right now and there is a flight coming in soon and I have to be on top of things.
“I wonder…” I cock my head to the side, an exhaustion induced idea rattling into my mind. I pick up the Pixie stick and peel off the top. “Maybe? What the hell? It’s worth a try.”
No one is around. I carefully dump the sugar into a neat, straight little line on the desk in front of me. I search around. Paper is too big and I am too tired to rip it. I smash my nose near the line but that only gets powder on my forehead. My coordination dies several days ago. Aha! I have some cash in my wallet. I fumble through and pull out a dollar. It takes several attempts but I finally get a sloppy roll. Another hasty and sneaky glance around. All is quiet save the muffled snores. Bust or nothing, I think to myself and lean over the line of Pixie dust.
I made it halfway down the line of sugar with one sniff and the door to my shop opened. From my hunched over position I glance up and see, dear God why? my Commanding Officer and the Command Master Chief staring at me, mouths slightly open in shock, eyes wide, from the open doorway.
There was a shocked and silent standoff. I know I am supposed to stand at attention and yell, “Attention on deck!” when the CO comes in. I am screwed. I know it. This looks bad. This is moronic and yet my sleep addled brain had told m it was a good idea. Yep. Bust or nothing, I think again. I am in it now, might as well finish. With my free hand I hold up a finger.
“I’ll be right with you, sir,” I say. One last snort and head sweep and the line is gone. I drop the dollar and snap to attention, yelling the cursory words that are required.
The duo in the doorway continue to stair at me. The CO’s mouth opens and then closes, opens and closes again. He is a fish dumped out of his bowl and he is confused because what he has just walked in on does not match the world he runs. I wait, stiff backed but knees trembling and a bubble of insane laughter threatening to spill out of me at any moment. The last snort of sugar did me in. Snot is running from my right nostril, tears are leaking profusely from my eyes and my nerve endings are buzzing like a live wire.
After a moment, the CO makes up his mind, “Petty Officer Praught,” he says and something trembles in his voice, a moment of hilarity he fights to cover. “I would ask but I think this is one of those times I am just going to say ‘carry on’ and walk away.”
“Sir I can explain-” I begin but he shakes his head.
“No, no,” he answers. “Please don’t. I just remembered something I have to do.” His mouth is twitching wildly now and my eyes are blurring from the sugar induced tears running out of them. He turns and hurries away. The CMC stands a second longer, eyeing me dubiously.
Finally, she says, “Once again, Petty Officer Praught, you have left me wondering what I am going to do with you.” With that, she too turns and strides away.
I wait for the door to swing shut before collapsing in my chair, peals of laughter pouring forth, scrambling for a napkin to wipe my face.
From under the counter, the sliding doors creaks open and Julie peers out. “Was that?’ she asks.
“Yes,” I nod, still laughing.
“What did you do?”
I hold up the wrapper. “I snorted a Pixie,” I gasp. “Sleep was gone and I snorted a Pixie!”

New Ideas

Wow! Wow, wow, wow is all I have to say. I joined NaNoWriMo on a whim and now realize that with my Graduate semester finals on top of me I will NOT be able to finish. However, the idea I decided to pull from my "Later Shelf" and use for the NaNoWriMo is about 10,000 words in and I am obsessed! I have got to finish CID 2 so that I can devote a ton of focus on it. There are so many elements to this fledgling book. Druids, Death, Mayhem, Mysterious tattoos with the power to burn, visits from the other side and so, so much more! It will be YA but I am 31 and see a great many people loving it in the (hopefully) near future. Must get writing faster!! Oh if only finals would be over so I can be on my three week break and just write, write, write!

American Dream or Gateway to Restlessness

I'm sitting here in a very comfortable chair. Where? I'm sitting in front of my very own home the we purchased last year. The crickets are chorusing with the frogs and the Whippoorwills and the sun has sunk to rest on the horizon and spill forth crimson, blush, and gold. The coming night is still and I am relaxed sipping my favorite drink - iced coffee. And yet, I wonder. I wonder at this feeling inside of me; this ever constant nibbling at the edges of my contentment.
You see, I am living the American Dream with my family: financially secure, happy and safe children, two cars we own, and a house we do not rent but instead we call ours! Isn't that the American Dream? Isn't that what so many come seeking or grow up here seeking? Is this not the epoch of living what so many chase? Then why does my heart still cry out to chase? I see others who have what we have and yet they cannot stop from ever running, ever stumbling, ever barreling headlong for more!
I wonder as I sit here safe and secure in my world if perhaps the obtaining of this Dream is not just a gateway to restlessness. Shouldn't we, I, be content to have reached at so early an age what others spend their entire lives fighting for? But I am not! I find that the Dream has been reached and my lust for more has not been satisfied. It would seem to be do with many, many others as well. We are immersed into a fast paced world from birth and we are washed over by the ideology of more ever more!! So much so that when what we reach what we are told is the Dream we suddenly find ourselves feeling stagnant and discontent. After all, there is more out there we do not yet have! There is more out there that others are doing and we are not! We must- we MUST!!!
Perhaps though, that is just me. Perhaps the Dream is not mine. I have loved the idea of a home and family and security and yet I have thirsted with an unquenchable thirst for just a hint of insecurity, just a dash of the unknown, a tidbit of danger and mountains of foreign and exotic places! My feet climb from bed in the morning and I walk through this American Dream while my mind tells my feet and soul to run as fast as possible! "Hurry!" Whispers my mind. "Flee!" Cries my soul. "Do not let yourself be too content," echoes my heart. For content I am and yet, content I am not. I have reached the Dream and upon entering its doors I found the gateway to restlessness.
I think my brother might have been right when he once observed to me, "You were simply born with the nature of a Gypsy." If that is my nature than who am I to accept anything less?

Let It Wander

Wandering minds: such vicious but ultimately satisfying creatures. Never stopping but long enough to say hello then scurrying on to the next great or lesser. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue were we each of us able to physically follow our minds where they might lead us? Alas! We are not all rich and must content ourselves with outlets for wandering minds. We sing with the passion of the Sistine Chapel. We paint with the colors of a sunset bleeding over the Swiss Alps. We debate and argue with the fury of an avalanche coming down Mt Everest. We love like a Spaniard and cry like a monsoon in South America. Every passion we pursue reflects our wandering minds. When someone critiques or lauds, insults or praises our passions, no matter how wild those passions may be, remember that in a way, their mind is simply mirroring your own, or envying yours.

The Paranoia of Writing

Someone asked me: "What's it like to have all those stories in your head and to be able to write them?"
I am fairly certain my blank stare and slightly open mouth made them quickly rethink their question and perhaps even ponder as to whether or not I actually HAD anything in my head! The truth is, it's not like anything I really know and so I was rather taken aback at the question. Now I've given it some thought. These are the conclusions I've come too- the answers, if you will.
First, if I could liken it to something I would liken it to paranoia; breathtaking, never boring, exhilarating and confounding but paranoia nonetheless. Why? Imagine there is always the feeling that something or someone is whispering in your head, teasing you from just out of sight, and flashing you just the briefest glimpses of utopia while never quite giving you the directions. That, unfortunately or fortunately, is the closest I can equate all the stories in my head with. They are there, constantly thrumming and circling and it is up to me to chase them down and give them life.
Secondly, I am NOT able to write them all down. This often causes me a great deal of distress as my sometimes narcissistic mind believes that each and every plot is the next Gone With the Wind. I have to force my mind to behave and focus on some and not all at a time. It's dizzying but I wouldn't dismount this out of control carousel for all the sanity in the world!
Lastly, and I realize this was not part of their question but it is part of the answer, being a writer is not something you choose, it is something you are. I did not wake up one day and decide to mount this ever frantic, ever changing pace roller coaster. I did not look at people like F. Scott Fitzgerald or Stephen King and decide that it was my way to be rich. No. Instead, it is something that has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. The stories, the characters, the plots have been part of my every waking moment since I first can recall. It's as much a part of me as my heart beat is. Without either, I don't survive.
Now that! Yes, all the above; I wish I had been able to answer that person who first posed to me the question. :)

Brushed With My Fingertips

    Addiction to adrenaline. Whether it is falling or climbing, crawling or screaming; whether it is terror or laughter, speed or depth. Regardless of the contributing factor I am forever and always addicted to the place that my heart and mind go when my fingertips brush the corridor of adrenaline. I have never much cared how I got my adrenaline rush only that I could have an adrenaline rush. I love the way, when adrenaline spikes through my body, how my heart erratically skips a few beats and my breath quivers in anxiety and my stomach lurches unsteadily and how my mind scrambles to find a metaphorical safe hold.
    Sometimes I watch people and how they seem only to live for the next big rush of Friday night drinking and laughter or how they live for the rush of one more paycheck or one more compliment. So many people sit back and wait for the next big, oh wait, not big at all simple and meaningless point in their life. I wonder to myself how they can content themselves with simply going to work each day and then partying on the weekend. I wonder if underneath their bright smiles and loud laughter they are covering a deep and intense craving for something that will spike their heart rate and bring out cold chills?
    Surely no one can truly be content with just one ever revolving mundane cycle of life. Surely they long for their fingertips to brush that moment that brings all your senses so alive you feel almost comatose when you come back down.
   Normalcy and routine have never been something I quite understood. Planting roots and letting them grow seems a foreign concept to me. There is too much earth to claim just one spot of earth; there is too much air to breath just one spot for the rest of your life.
    I always want to brush the edge and sometimes, I even want to fall over. The hurtle down is so much more than the view from the top.

24 Hours

A mother's love is infinite. It extends past the reaches of time and creeps into the areas no one else knows about. However, a mother's love may be infinite but it also needs a momentary rest on occassion. Our love does not stop but from time to time, our batteries wear down and they just need to be recharged. I used to think I was a bad mother for wanting a break from my children. Now I realize that it is the good mother that can admit when they are just exhausted and worn out and frazzled. I never want a long period of time away from my children because more than a day and I miss them excruciatingly. (I used to be Active Duty Navy so I know a bit about being away from my children for more than a day). No, what I need is one full day. 24 hours. 24 hours to recharge and to clear and wash away the shorted out fuses in my brain. 24 hours to not hear the word Mommy because as much as I love hearing the word Mommy sometimes I just want to hear "BrookLynne" instead. LOL. My children are wonderful and they behave and they love me. In fact, the love me so much that if I am out of their sight for more than 2 minutes (i.e. bathroom, upstairs doing laundry, in the kitchen, etc. etc.) they tear through the house yelling for me because they "really missed me and were looking for me." LOL. I call them my Hollywood Lovers because they love like Hollywood shows love. There constantly, touching constantly, hugging and kissing constantly, and just generally never wanting to be apart. I am blessed beyond measure. Right now, I need 24 hours. =) I am tired and my brain needs to unplug from Mommy-hod and plug into alone-hood for just 24 hours. LOL. 24 hours doesn't make you a bad mom, it makes you appreciate even more what you have and what you can miss when you don't have it.