...and of course, feel free to take a walk down memory lane and read old "I took the [road] less traveled by/" posts.
Thanks for stopping by!
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Closing Time
It's been a beautiful run here with this blog. From here on out, I will not be posting new material. Please feel free to check out my other up to date sites and ongoing series and blogs:
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Grapes of Wrath
Today was a funny day to wake up. My phone vibrated at 8:40 a.m. with a text message from a friend. No preface, no context, no "good morning," just this portion of an incredible and powerful Marianne Williamson quote:
"We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you."
Then I scrolled over to my emails only to find this comment posted on a YouTube video from my "Body Empowerment" series:
"You Look Like A Miserable, Bloated, Drunk-Bison... You have Saggy, Droopy eyes like a Bloodhound... You are HUGE... You look like a Third grade teacher who gets her ass kicked by her RedNeck Husband... Congrats on the new baby BTW. What are you now? 9 mos pregnant. Make a poem about What A Lard-Ass you are... Looking st you motivates me to be skinny... U fucking disgust me... Good night my fellow Behemoth-BITCH :)"
Part of me wants to send the Marianne Williamson quote to this YouTube viewer, but I'm not particially interested in engaging in a back and forth with this viewer directly. So I figured if I posted both it and the WIlliamson quote somewhere on the Internet, maybe the energy of the Williamson quote would land somewhere on their computer screen and keyboard and seap through their fingers and eyes into their soul and they would stop bullying strangers on the Internet as a manifestation of some awful pain eating them up inside.
The best part of the YouTube comment is the last line when the viewer writes "my fellow Behemoth-BITCH :)." "Fellow." What self-deprecation. How we treat ourselves with such shame. As Daniel "Fritz" Silber-Baker says in his poem "Swag," which references this Williamson quote, "Turn my swag on."
"We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you."
Then I scrolled over to my emails only to find this comment posted on a YouTube video from my "Body Empowerment" series:
"You Look Like A Miserable, Bloated, Drunk-Bison... You have Saggy, Droopy eyes like a Bloodhound... You are HUGE... You look like a Third grade teacher who gets her ass kicked by her RedNeck Husband... Congrats on the new baby BTW. What are you now? 9 mos pregnant. Make a poem about What A Lard-Ass you are... Looking st you motivates me to be skinny... U fucking disgust me... Good night my fellow Behemoth-BITCH :)"
Part of me wants to send the Marianne Williamson quote to this YouTube viewer, but I'm not particially interested in engaging in a back and forth with this viewer directly. So I figured if I posted both it and the WIlliamson quote somewhere on the Internet, maybe the energy of the Williamson quote would land somewhere on their computer screen and keyboard and seap through their fingers and eyes into their soul and they would stop bullying strangers on the Internet as a manifestation of some awful pain eating them up inside.
The best part of the YouTube comment is the last line when the viewer writes "my fellow Behemoth-BITCH :)." "Fellow." What self-deprecation. How we treat ourselves with such shame. As Daniel "Fritz" Silber-Baker says in his poem "Swag," which references this Williamson quote, "Turn my swag on."
Monday, August 08, 2011
"All the world's a stage"
I spent time in an empty theater this morning. Standing on the empty stage of a vacant theater is often more titillating than an actual performance. There is something primordial about breathing untainted stage air: there is more rawness than live performance allots.
"It's like foreplay with creation," my friend Jeremy Karafin, Founder and Co-artistic Director of Poetic Theater Productions, said. We were at the Wild Project, an Alphabet City theater at which he works in New York City. It was close to noon. I had just been interviewed outside the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe for a nonprofit's upcoming web campaign promoting confidence in women and girls. I was oozing with confidence myself, and after a lengthy chat with Jeremy, he told me I could walk into the theater. Not to perform, not to work, just to be. He must have known my lust for the empty stage.
As I stood in the front row staring at the vacant performance space, he told me I could go on stage. I jumped aboard. He stayed leaning against the wall separating the seats from the aisle.
I asked him he knew about the feeling. How being uninterrupted, uninhabited, untainted on a theater stage was intoxicating, exhilarating, and prophetic. He knew. Most performers and theater people do.
In lieu of this week being the National Poetry Slam in Boston, I thought about how so often in spoken word and slam poetry we use the microphone as our instrument of engagement. The microphone is powerful. It helps us project. It stands as an incredible symbol by which we promote voice and authenticity.
Still, what happens when our primary instrument becomes the stage, rather than the microphone. In this event, the microphone becomes a part of the instrument at large. Instead of containing our voices and performances into a slender, vertical piece of technology, the stage as a instrument catapults our performance with wider ranger and depth from a horizontal platform. We dynamically work the entire room, rather than playing only a small portion of it.
"All the world's a stage," wrote Shakespeare in "As You Like It." Let's use it. All of it. Let's let our body project and play the room. Our voices will be an inherent and phenomenal causality.
"It's like foreplay with creation," my friend Jeremy Karafin, Founder and Co-artistic Director of Poetic Theater Productions, said. We were at the Wild Project, an Alphabet City theater at which he works in New York City. It was close to noon. I had just been interviewed outside the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe for a nonprofit's upcoming web campaign promoting confidence in women and girls. I was oozing with confidence myself, and after a lengthy chat with Jeremy, he told me I could walk into the theater. Not to perform, not to work, just to be. He must have known my lust for the empty stage.
As I stood in the front row staring at the vacant performance space, he told me I could go on stage. I jumped aboard. He stayed leaning against the wall separating the seats from the aisle.
I asked him he knew about the feeling. How being uninterrupted, uninhabited, untainted on a theater stage was intoxicating, exhilarating, and prophetic. He knew. Most performers and theater people do.
In lieu of this week being the National Poetry Slam in Boston, I thought about how so often in spoken word and slam poetry we use the microphone as our instrument of engagement. The microphone is powerful. It helps us project. It stands as an incredible symbol by which we promote voice and authenticity.
Still, what happens when our primary instrument becomes the stage, rather than the microphone. In this event, the microphone becomes a part of the instrument at large. Instead of containing our voices and performances into a slender, vertical piece of technology, the stage as a instrument catapults our performance with wider ranger and depth from a horizontal platform. We dynamically work the entire room, rather than playing only a small portion of it.
"All the world's a stage," wrote Shakespeare in "As You Like It." Let's use it. All of it. Let's let our body project and play the room. Our voices will be an inherent and phenomenal causality.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Adaptation
I wrote this on February 7, 2011. It still feels 100 percent relevant today. I'm not sure that I have a resolution yet, but I know that acknowledgment is always the first step.
There is something terrifying about self-satisfaction. Like it is illegal. And messy. And egotistical. I have watched so many people take advantage of it, and burn forests in the wake of their fires.
I am afraid of sitting still. Of walking away from all the distractions to vomit verbal on the page and meditate myself into myself and other forms of self care and coping and self prophecy.
I am afraid of dreaming. Of dreaming big. Like I used to. Of dreaming happy. Like I used to. Of letting myself live freely with freedom and liberty and all the things we were promised upon arrival.
My stomach makes noises. My noises make gaseous propellant sounds. My sounds are empty. And my arms are waves of reminder chills. The kind I always get. That stopped for a while. That came back a while ago. These are noises. And chills.
And what are words. Are they as powerful as they used to be? Have we sucked up all of their energy? Have we perverted them into quicksand holding patterns because we’ve mistrusted ourselves and miscalculated our own abilities to drip propane gas onto the sounds of chills.
And other chemicals.
I keep avoiding my self. My sense of self. My writing self. My reading self. My inner self. My natural self. For what is the discipline now? There are too many emails to which to respond. Too many interviews to type. Too many children to tutor. There is not enough time in the day for myself. There is not enough time in the day for myself. There is not enough time in the day for myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Type it seven times, quickly. Like life depends on it. Like typing isn’t fast enough. Like the brain and my brain and all brains work too quickly. Work too quickly. Type it fast. Faster. Like my brain. Myself. Myself. Myself. Like my brain. Like brain of myself. Type it fast. What’s the reason. What’s the reason that these are all typed fast. So fast. Like myself.
Do anything and everything to avoid myself. To avoid sitting here. To avoid what makes me happy. To avoid. To avoid. To avoid. What am I so afraid of? Why can’t I sit still and do what I want to do for myself. Why. Can’t I. Just sit. Still.
There is something terrifying about self-satisfaction. Like it is illegal. And messy. And egotistical. I have watched so many people take advantage of it, and burn forests in the wake of their fires.
I am afraid of sitting still. Of walking away from all the distractions to vomit verbal on the page and meditate myself into myself and other forms of self care and coping and self prophecy.
I am afraid of dreaming. Of dreaming big. Like I used to. Of dreaming happy. Like I used to. Of letting myself live freely with freedom and liberty and all the things we were promised upon arrival.
My stomach makes noises. My noises make gaseous propellant sounds. My sounds are empty. And my arms are waves of reminder chills. The kind I always get. That stopped for a while. That came back a while ago. These are noises. And chills.
And what are words. Are they as powerful as they used to be? Have we sucked up all of their energy? Have we perverted them into quicksand holding patterns because we’ve mistrusted ourselves and miscalculated our own abilities to drip propane gas onto the sounds of chills.
And other chemicals.
I keep avoiding my self. My sense of self. My writing self. My reading self. My inner self. My natural self. For what is the discipline now? There are too many emails to which to respond. Too many interviews to type. Too many children to tutor. There is not enough time in the day for myself. There is not enough time in the day for myself. There is not enough time in the day for myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Myself. Type it seven times, quickly. Like life depends on it. Like typing isn’t fast enough. Like the brain and my brain and all brains work too quickly. Work too quickly. Type it fast. Faster. Like my brain. Myself. Myself. Myself. Like my brain. Like brain of myself. Type it fast. What’s the reason. What’s the reason that these are all typed fast. So fast. Like myself.
Do anything and everything to avoid myself. To avoid sitting here. To avoid what makes me happy. To avoid. To avoid. To avoid. What am I so afraid of? Why can’t I sit still and do what I want to do for myself. Why. Can’t I. Just sit. Still.
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Thriller
Last week, I eavesdropped on a woman and man at an East Village, Manhattan, coffeeshop. Him: a web designer and computer expert; her: a yoga instructor. He was teaching her how to use Facebook, as she won an "Introduction to Facebook Lesson" in an auction at her daughter's school. He left, she closed up her lap top, packed up, coated up, and started for the door. This is when I stopped her, and learned most of the above details.
I told her I was jealous that she was Facebook free. That she had managed to live this many years without being so overly plugged in. She said she knew it was a blessing and a curse. That anything she resists in life, she realizes she must address - yoga instructor jargon, of course. We chatted a bit more. I told her it was addictive, but also crucial for marketing her yoga studio. That's just how it is, these days, we both agreed. And she left.
A few years ago I met a man at Starbucks, also in the East Village. We talked about the publishing world - I was writing my first book manuscript at the time - and we exchanged information. He only had a land line, and a mailing address - no email. He called himself a Luddite. Of course, he was, ironically, frequenting Starbucks. I think of him from time to time, when I can't pull my fingers or face away from my BlackBerry or Facebook or Twitter or my email inbox.
I have a handful of close friends that aren't on Facebook. I envy that sometimes, assuming they must still have some control and autonomy in their lives. That they must be more productive as artists and activists without existing in both the human world, and the Facebook world.
Because really, that's what it is. Facebook - the Internet and all other social media sites - is another world in and of itself. It feels like this space where things happen, and I can't yet figure out if these things that happen replace connection in real life, or supplement it. I used to think it was supplemental. Back in the day. Back when there were only 15 colleges on Facebook and I only joined because my friend told me he expected that I would have the best Facebook profile ever. So I took the challenge and joined. That was 7 or 8 years ago. I logged on every few days. Wrote novels on my friend Neely's wall. Poked a few friends. We thought it was a funny joke.
Now, it controls so many of our lives.
Yet of course, I embrace Facebook. It's an incredible tool for staying in touch with people and reconnecting with friends. Entire events happen in the Facebook sphere - for better or worse. Relationships come out of Facebook. My friend and his wife just had their second child - they met via Facebook. My boyfriend and I have Facebook to thank. We first met at a poetry show in which I was performing, and he was the photographer. Days later, he friended me. I sent him a message. We chatted for hours. That was almost two years ago.
I just wonder if we'll ever go back to a time when Facebook is supplemental to our lives, rather than an escape from, or instead of, or because of. I feel like it has lost control - that we have lost control.
I think about that mother. I think about her yoga practice. I think about resistance. The Luddite in Starbucks. Has he made it this far - still - without an email address or Facebook account?
And then of course, I will hit the "publish post" button here in Blogger, and my post will publish. And very few people will look at my blog and notice that a new post is up for the first time since November. Then, as I have linked them automatically, the post will feed through my Facebook account, and show up as a note. Which is the only way most people will ever end up reading this.
And then, of course, there's this: http://nyti.ms/h13NzB.
I told her I was jealous that she was Facebook free. That she had managed to live this many years without being so overly plugged in. She said she knew it was a blessing and a curse. That anything she resists in life, she realizes she must address - yoga instructor jargon, of course. We chatted a bit more. I told her it was addictive, but also crucial for marketing her yoga studio. That's just how it is, these days, we both agreed. And she left.
A few years ago I met a man at Starbucks, also in the East Village. We talked about the publishing world - I was writing my first book manuscript at the time - and we exchanged information. He only had a land line, and a mailing address - no email. He called himself a Luddite. Of course, he was, ironically, frequenting Starbucks. I think of him from time to time, when I can't pull my fingers or face away from my BlackBerry or Facebook or Twitter or my email inbox.
I have a handful of close friends that aren't on Facebook. I envy that sometimes, assuming they must still have some control and autonomy in their lives. That they must be more productive as artists and activists without existing in both the human world, and the Facebook world.
Because really, that's what it is. Facebook - the Internet and all other social media sites - is another world in and of itself. It feels like this space where things happen, and I can't yet figure out if these things that happen replace connection in real life, or supplement it. I used to think it was supplemental. Back in the day. Back when there were only 15 colleges on Facebook and I only joined because my friend told me he expected that I would have the best Facebook profile ever. So I took the challenge and joined. That was 7 or 8 years ago. I logged on every few days. Wrote novels on my friend Neely's wall. Poked a few friends. We thought it was a funny joke.
Now, it controls so many of our lives.
Yet of course, I embrace Facebook. It's an incredible tool for staying in touch with people and reconnecting with friends. Entire events happen in the Facebook sphere - for better or worse. Relationships come out of Facebook. My friend and his wife just had their second child - they met via Facebook. My boyfriend and I have Facebook to thank. We first met at a poetry show in which I was performing, and he was the photographer. Days later, he friended me. I sent him a message. We chatted for hours. That was almost two years ago.
I just wonder if we'll ever go back to a time when Facebook is supplemental to our lives, rather than an escape from, or instead of, or because of. I feel like it has lost control - that we have lost control.
I think about that mother. I think about her yoga practice. I think about resistance. The Luddite in Starbucks. Has he made it this far - still - without an email address or Facebook account?
And then of course, I will hit the "publish post" button here in Blogger, and my post will publish. And very few people will look at my blog and notice that a new post is up for the first time since November. Then, as I have linked them automatically, the post will feed through my Facebook account, and show up as a note. Which is the only way most people will ever end up reading this.
And then, of course, there's this: http://nyti.ms/h13NzB.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
32 Flavors
There is an epic and ephemeral veil that clothes so many parts of high school. I will never hear Ani DiFranco for the first time again. But I remember that first time. I was in the passenger seat of my friend Brenna's car. She had "Not A Pretty Girl" playing on the tape deck. "32 Flavors" came on. It spoke to me. Meant things I'd never heard before in song lyrics. It sang to me. Melodies I - to this day - hear, that make me feel transcendent, well, over everything in my life.
I'm listening to it now. I have chills. I remember how I listened to this song on repeat for probably an hour my senior year of high school, while at boarding school in Switzerland. The Swiss Alps and Lake Lugano through my window, "I am 32 flavors and then some," through my boom box speakers.
...and then. Literally. Literally, as I finish typing the previous sentence, I see a new email pop up in my inbox. Brenna has friended me on Facebook. Literally, I swear to G-d. I didn't make this up. And I had no idea where this blog post was headed when I started typing. It just seems to have written itself, as I typed her name and that memory and this song back into existence in my life. After all these years.
What are the odds. Really, what are the odds?
And what is the meaning?
Well...maybe those moments aren't so ephemeral. Maybe there is something powerful about remembering and bringing yourself back to basic spaces of newness, because they open you up to present moments of rebirth.
The "re" prefix was created for a reason.
I'm listening to it now. I have chills. I remember how I listened to this song on repeat for probably an hour my senior year of high school, while at boarding school in Switzerland. The Swiss Alps and Lake Lugano through my window, "I am 32 flavors and then some," through my boom box speakers.
...and then. Literally. Literally, as I finish typing the previous sentence, I see a new email pop up in my inbox. Brenna has friended me on Facebook. Literally, I swear to G-d. I didn't make this up. And I had no idea where this blog post was headed when I started typing. It just seems to have written itself, as I typed her name and that memory and this song back into existence in my life. After all these years.
What are the odds. Really, what are the odds?
And what is the meaning?
Well...maybe those moments aren't so ephemeral. Maybe there is something powerful about remembering and bringing yourself back to basic spaces of newness, because they open you up to present moments of rebirth.
The "re" prefix was created for a reason.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Asterix
I don't have any reoccurring dream per se, just a reoccurring dream theme: high school Latin class. I'm beginning to think that my reoccurring high school Latin class dream is an anxiety dream, because in every dream with this theme and plot structure, I'm behind. I haven't been to class for a few weeks. I didn't turn my homework in for the day, or the days before. I have no idea where my Latin dictionary is. I had no idea how to get to the classroom in the first place. I have no idea who many of the students are - they weren't in my Latin class in high school! But plenty of the faces are.
It's always the same teacher - one of my two high school Latin teachers. And for some reason, she never scolds me in these dreams. She just goes along, like I'll catch up and shift at my own pace. I'm not sure what that's about. Maybe it's the same way I approach some of my slacking tutoring students: I know they are capable of doing the work, but sometimes scolding and punishing and singling out is more harm than its worth. Sometimes ignoring the problem makes students like me - eager to please, and diligent and capable - feel even worse, because then I know the teacher is disappointed that I didn't work to my abilities.
So why - all these years later, having majored in Classical Studies, and received a Masters degree - do I still go to high school Latin in class in my subconscious as the metaphor for anxiety, and feeling like - knowing that? - I could be working much harder and more efficiently and in a more timely manor than I currently am?
I've written my Latin history before here. I'll spare the lengthy details this time around. But to summarize, I started taking Latin in sixth grade because my father told me it would boost my verbal SAT score (ironically, this would be my lowest standardized test score from high school). I started off with a bang - straight As all through 9th grade, and inducted into the Latin honor society. By 10th and 11th grade, an eating disorder and depression had taken hold of my everything. My grades slipped, my mental stability slipped, my physical health slipped, my emotions fluctuated, and I was, by no means, reaching my potential in school, particularly in Latin.
After a two-year stint studying in Europe, I went to college, wanting to major in Classical Studies, with a concentration in Latin. And so I did. I loved the language. I'd missed it terribly while in Europe. And again - I started off with a bang. Straight As freshman and sophomore year. By junior year, I was struggling. My two worst grades of college, in my major, in the language and subject matter I'd been studying at that point for 10 years.
I don't think it was my ability, or the language itself. It was that I was running two campus organizations, taking several demanding courses - including writing courses in which I preferred to focus my efforts, performing poetry all the time on behalf of one of the organizations I ran, minoring in theatre, sitting on body image panels, attending meetings for myriad women and feminist organizations, and also, you know, maintaining a multitude of friends and a social life. And oh yeah, working heavily in therapy on recovering from previously aforementioned eating disorder, and a series of other luxurious traumas that welcomed me to college.
So again, it wasn't my ability that was being challenged here with college junior year Latin. It was my priorities, my ability to manage my time, my ability to make time to highlight my skill set in an area for which I had tremendous passion. But having enough time for Latin translations each night, meant hours. It took hours for me to translate the works of Ovid and Petronious that I was assigned. And to this day, I still regret that. I still regret fumbling and falling just because I couldn't figure out how to make the time. Just because I have a life-long insatiable ability to sabotage those things I love and enjoy most, by putting other things ahead. Now, in college, I'm not sure that I loved Latin more than my poetry group, or feminism, or writing, or my friends. So I'm not really sure what would have needed to give in order for me to have succeeded that year in Latin. Maybe the excessive emotional stresses I put on myself? Maybe those?
But nowadays, I can see where I'm playing this game again. I can see why I had to have the Latin dream, again. I'm not nearly working to my full potential as a writer. I'm not nearly scratching the surface of what I'm capable of as a poet and activist. I'm putting so many other things ahead. Some of them are in order to survive financially, others could maybe give a little - like the extra hour of snoozing my alarm each morning. On the other hand, others would argue I need the sleep.
All I know is that the dream came again. Last night. Or rather this morning - while I was snoozing - oh the irony. I suppose it was telling me to get out of bed and start writing. And so I did. An hour and a half later than I planned last night.
It's always the same teacher - one of my two high school Latin teachers. And for some reason, she never scolds me in these dreams. She just goes along, like I'll catch up and shift at my own pace. I'm not sure what that's about. Maybe it's the same way I approach some of my slacking tutoring students: I know they are capable of doing the work, but sometimes scolding and punishing and singling out is more harm than its worth. Sometimes ignoring the problem makes students like me - eager to please, and diligent and capable - feel even worse, because then I know the teacher is disappointed that I didn't work to my abilities.
So why - all these years later, having majored in Classical Studies, and received a Masters degree - do I still go to high school Latin in class in my subconscious as the metaphor for anxiety, and feeling like - knowing that? - I could be working much harder and more efficiently and in a more timely manor than I currently am?
I've written my Latin history before here. I'll spare the lengthy details this time around. But to summarize, I started taking Latin in sixth grade because my father told me it would boost my verbal SAT score (ironically, this would be my lowest standardized test score from high school). I started off with a bang - straight As all through 9th grade, and inducted into the Latin honor society. By 10th and 11th grade, an eating disorder and depression had taken hold of my everything. My grades slipped, my mental stability slipped, my physical health slipped, my emotions fluctuated, and I was, by no means, reaching my potential in school, particularly in Latin.
After a two-year stint studying in Europe, I went to college, wanting to major in Classical Studies, with a concentration in Latin. And so I did. I loved the language. I'd missed it terribly while in Europe. And again - I started off with a bang. Straight As freshman and sophomore year. By junior year, I was struggling. My two worst grades of college, in my major, in the language and subject matter I'd been studying at that point for 10 years.
I don't think it was my ability, or the language itself. It was that I was running two campus organizations, taking several demanding courses - including writing courses in which I preferred to focus my efforts, performing poetry all the time on behalf of one of the organizations I ran, minoring in theatre, sitting on body image panels, attending meetings for myriad women and feminist organizations, and also, you know, maintaining a multitude of friends and a social life. And oh yeah, working heavily in therapy on recovering from previously aforementioned eating disorder, and a series of other luxurious traumas that welcomed me to college.
So again, it wasn't my ability that was being challenged here with college junior year Latin. It was my priorities, my ability to manage my time, my ability to make time to highlight my skill set in an area for which I had tremendous passion. But having enough time for Latin translations each night, meant hours. It took hours for me to translate the works of Ovid and Petronious that I was assigned. And to this day, I still regret that. I still regret fumbling and falling just because I couldn't figure out how to make the time. Just because I have a life-long insatiable ability to sabotage those things I love and enjoy most, by putting other things ahead. Now, in college, I'm not sure that I loved Latin more than my poetry group, or feminism, or writing, or my friends. So I'm not really sure what would have needed to give in order for me to have succeeded that year in Latin. Maybe the excessive emotional stresses I put on myself? Maybe those?
But nowadays, I can see where I'm playing this game again. I can see why I had to have the Latin dream, again. I'm not nearly working to my full potential as a writer. I'm not nearly scratching the surface of what I'm capable of as a poet and activist. I'm putting so many other things ahead. Some of them are in order to survive financially, others could maybe give a little - like the extra hour of snoozing my alarm each morning. On the other hand, others would argue I need the sleep.
All I know is that the dream came again. Last night. Or rather this morning - while I was snoozing - oh the irony. I suppose it was telling me to get out of bed and start writing. And so I did. An hour and a half later than I planned last night.
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