Do you remember the Dan Hicks song, I Scare Myself?
Doesn't really obtain, except that I scare myself. I remember a beau once frustratedly snarking at me that I was impossible to control. I replied that it was a tough job, not recommended for amateurs. And I'm pushing six decades of trying to get this machine to run more or less straight without the engine misfiring too much.
Didn't sleep last night, to speak of, although I did take a Kneipps' Hops Bath and read. I was likely calmer today, but not so very present.
I am a complete wreck/baby/idiot/whatever when I don't get enough sleep. I am nearly dangerous to myself and others. I find it difficult to make simple decisions like "Should I take this parking place or keep driving around?" "Does green mean go? Go where now?" I get so tired that I won't do anything but play solitaire and listen to podcasts or Aretha Franklin. Too tired to sleep.
Now, the one thing this daily writing has done is caused thinking about writing, and not just here, to become a darn near obsession. I am in that zone much more of the time. And working on these writing projects continues to rise on the priority list. A good thing.
But I have so much stuff, so many ideas for non-writing projects, and tidbits, doodads, odds and ends, detritus, books, yarn, fabric, blah blah blah, that the management of all this takes up a lot of mental and psychic bandwidth. I have to find the courage to change that habit, that collecting habit.
I need to figure out how to make THAT a practice in the next year, so that I spend more time actually being creative than managing the possibilities of being creative.
Meanwhile, there is a base-level of ache in my heart all the time, missing my brother Carl. Like a toothache or some lizard-brain pain. I don't imagine the next couple of weeks are going to make me miss him less.