Thursday, 24 December 2009


   Last night, as I padded around my room, rearranging odds and ends and generally contemplating the newness of my insomnia*, I noticed the quality of the light spilling from my window**. I peered out, almost pressing my nose against the chilly glass like some excited little child peering out the window, trying with all her might to catch a glimpse of the ever elusive flying reindeer. The sight of the snow, falling thick and fluffy, blanketing the trees and houses and lights, muffling the noises and stifling the stark brilliance's of the ice were far better than witnessing the mythological  flight of a reindeer. Indeed seeing this was better than sleeping, better than dreaming of you***, better than the first sips of orange juice in the morning, better than the sense of pride when I pass I really hard exam, better than crying to music. Some how this view from my window seemed so private, so intricate that I felt the need to turn my head and politely stair at my wall. Instead I opened my window; the freezing air hit me hard in the face, the hairs on my arms instantly rising, and reached my hand out. A snowflake landed on the tip of my middle finger; quickly I drew my hand in. Looking at this insignificant micro-fleck of frozen water slowly dissolving in the warmth from my tingling flesh a memory came flooding up to my consciousness. On the first day of high school Drama and Theatre Art Class+ my drama teacher Ms. R came bounding into the room. It was the first time I had ever seen her for I had just transferred schools. She had on a long blue skirt, black boots, a white almost dressy shirt and a light blue cardie. She also wore large, white, snowflake earrings that were mingling with her slightly unruly, gray-flecked hair. She made us take a good look at her earrings and then told us a story of how she'd worn them on this, our first day, to illustrate that we were each as unique and amazing as a snowflake. At the time I  thought it was slightly ironic that her earrings were identical, mind you, I have never seen a set of earrings in a store that weren't identical, and I also thought that it was a slightly cheesy analogy. It was a cute try though and since then Ms R. has become my favorite and most human teacher.
   To remember all this took only about a second and, after the vivid memory faded I closed my window and sat down on my bed, all the while still looking at my rapidly melting snowflake. I'm not really sure if Ms R's metaphor did anything for anyone, possibly it only succeeded in breaking the tension of a first day, but right then, in that moment, I felt her looking at me, demanding that I be me, that I be unique, insisting that to be successful on stage you had to learn the art of being present in every single moment. Living solely for that moment.
   Without warning I felt the immense pressure in my chest, the betraying welling of tears, the bitter pain of a cry ripping its way up my throat. I wondered at the sudden urgency of my emotions. The force of one silly memory. I realized I was sad for myself. I had been waiting for you, H. to come make me happy, I'd been living in my dream world, caught up in the fascination of the barren lands of sleeplessness.
  On impulse I licked the melted snowflake from my finger, wrapped myself in my duvet and fell into one of the most restful sleeps I've had in a long while. I woke with the taste of snowflake on my tongue and the tingling of Christmas in my bones.
Merry Christmas Eve everyone.

Songs of a Girl:
Samskeyti by Sigur Ros

Mornings Fascination:
Gorilla Art

*I don't actually think I'm an insomniac, or not in the long-suffering-don't-sleep-at-ALL sense of the word, I view my recent predicament as a slow spiral into beginner insomnia.

**I've started noticing things such as the way light creeps into and diffuses a dark room, the pitch of drunken teenagers as they stumble below my window, the reverberating hum of my kittens contentment, and, most acutely, the piercing silence after I have unplugged all the lights, radios, phones etc. from my room and the high almost tintinnabulic sound of the dormant electricity is extinguished.

***Lately I have been dreaming-that is when I fall asleep, which is becoming less and less frequent-about you, H. I don't dream dirty things, or angelic wedding type things, really all I dream are everyday things. Small occurrences, little blips of life, but with one very large difference. You, H. are there. You will hold me, or laugh with me, touch my cheek or start the car. In some ways I find this dreams a lot more saddening than if I was simply dreaming of very naughty encounters or extremely pleasing foreplay, see the dreams I'm dreaming are exposing a much deeper need and dread.

+Oh that was a decent amount of time ago.

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