There is an order to things. Gravity drags apples from trees and hurls them bodily at innocent proto-physicists who lay sleeping off mid-day mead. Sunshine blazes through scattered droplets of life-giving water and causes the easily amused and the hopeful to see pretty streams of light, and other physicists to poo-poo the sentimentality of accidental, trivial effects of natural laws.
And I have a beard, dammit!
Since removing my chinlocks, I’ve been fighting back a concussive wave of coughing, a explosion of sneezing, and a sleigh-load of sleeplessness. I find myself caught between natural difficulty in sleeping due to an over-active mind and the annoyance of ballistic phlegm dislodged by horizontal orientation. In plainer words, no night for two weeks has given me a continuous rest of more than 5 hours in length, and most nights have given me a total of no more than 6.
I have within me, the genes of bears. Or at least, it’s long been suspected. When I slumber, I do it long and deep, oblivious to whatever maelstrom might be hovering inches above my face. And I need to cease conscious existence for long periods, although I can, if pressed, remain awake and active for impressive amounts of time.
Perhaps it’s stress. I haven’t taken proper days off for ages. I’m not even sure if I am capable of taking proper days off. If it wasn’t for the simple pressure of back-logged attention and activity which creaks at the joints of the waking mind on days free of other necessary obligations, it would be the sheer indulgent hedonism of immersing oneself in pleasures long denied that would consume any time not designated for “work” or “obligation”.
Oh, it’s not as though my divergences are truly scandalous; in truth, when given time such as last night and today, I seek out television shows which I’ve neglected for as much as two seasons to consume gluttonously, or I find something to read or organize that I had forgotten in the collision of busy work life and clamoring social life.
To be specific: I have now caught up on Supernatural (on TV) and found a few RPGs whose electronic form had been part of some mass, generous, humanitarian bundle..
These things are food for my creative brain. I know that one of my reactions to over-stress is to stuff my face with food, or stuff my mind with crafted fiction, or stuff my ears with unheard music from my vast collection.
I’m seeking a creative outlet now, as well: blogging, at the moment. Each of these posts is an example of this creative bloom, a gushing flood of semi-illuminated rambling, glowing with its energy if not its intelligence. The excuse to update regularly right now is providing a reflection on a curious event (the intentional loss and return of my beard), and these posts are nothing of any substance (perhaps a form of literary self-stimulation..).
I see that there is definition in the beard growth. It looks much like a shadow of the previous beard, the leftover burnt reflection after the nuclear explosion of trim that they received. Up close, the hairs are jagged and uneven, although ironically less sharp and itchy than its shorter stage..
In other random thoughts: I would like to seek some paying work in the voice-over field. It seems intimidatingly crowded as a field, and there are plenty of experienced voices to take up the market. I let one opportunity slip through recently, as I was too overwhelmed by sleep debt to be ambitious (as I am right now).
I also wonder if I have time to build such a career.. Time is a strangely fluid substance, not measured in minutes and hours so much as in meaning. We “waste” time continually, but “wasted” time is often the most valuable. The time that seems the least valuable is that which is consumed with required activity, both things that are work and things that bureaucratic…
In a semi-related, random note: Nathan Lowell’s French accent is… I really want to be charitable, and I have a gentle streak which governs all that I say and do. I greatly admire Lowell’s writing and personality, as well as his reading voice for non-accented work. I think that he deserves accolades beyond measure, and I look forward to every word he writes.
But… His French accent is distractingly bad. There — I said it. It feels a little sinful to poke any fun at such an accomplished person, and I fear that at least part of my motivation might stem out of jealousy, but..
I’m listening to Down From 10 by J. Daniel Sawyer. I listened to Predestination and Other Games Of Chance earlier this year, and his writing style impresses me too. He has a way of structuring his stories to unfold tantalizingly, confusingly at first and then folding back on themselves into a coherent portrait. Down From 10 seems similar, and has achieved almost a legendary status as having an undefinable genre. Indeed, one might argue that, as there are elements of erotica, drama, humour, mystery.. But I find that the slow twisting of horror is the most consistent, and the ultimate over-arching theme…
But, I’m only half-way through, so judging a book like this is unfair.. But I’m hooked, now..
And should you ever read this, Mr. Lowell: my apologies. There had to be something you were bad at, and I’m glad it’s such a minor thing..
Beware the random blog post! The vorpal words go snicker-snack!