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According to my shrink insomnia is one of those biggy symptoms of depression.
Well, it's 3:49 a.m. right now and as you can see I'm typing this rather than sleeping.
I think I slept for about an hour before waking a little after midnight. I lay there in bed desperately trying to sleep. Honest, I was trying.
A little after 2:00 I gave up and came into the office to read poetry thinking that would put me to sleep. It had in the past, so I figured it would do it again. Only, I've been reading a lot of poetry, daily in fact. I get a poem a day from The Writer's Almanac. Plus, I have a book, a collection of poems, Chief Modern Poets of Britain and America, Fifth Edition.
I remember in school not being particular interested in poetry because teachers were always asking what the poet was trying to say when he wrote the poem as if there was some hidden meaning. I was never good at figuring out what poets were hiding behind their metaphors, which quite simply allowed me to put poems way down on my list of interesting things to read or take extraordinary interest in.
Now, I'm working very hard at trying to read poetry, not to find hidden metaphors, but to enjoy the poem as a work of written art. It's as simple as that. The only problem is that poems do not put me to sleep anymore.
Current Mood: awake
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 It turned out to be a rather nice trip around the Olympic Peninsula to Port Angeles where we stayed at the Red Lion Inn; it's right on the water and this was our view on July 5.
The city dock is on the left and, no, we did not climb all those steps to the observation deck. The dock was full of people on the night of the Fourth watching the fireworks off to the right. No, I didn't attempt to get any pictures of the fireworks, either; maybe next year, if I have a job that allows me to be away on the Fifth. The city dock has moorage available to transit vessels, but on the Fourth the bay was full of anchored boats.
The ship out there was taking on ballast water after having off-loaded at one of the refineries in Anacortes or Ferndale. Port Angeles Harbor is the only large protected body of water with a sizeable community between the refineries and the Pacific Ocean. The next morning it was gone, only to be replaced by another ship that anchored further to the east.
In the far distance is the U.S. Coast Guard Air Station on Ediz Hook, named in 1847 by Captain Henry Kellett of the British Admiralty. Ediz comes from the local Indian word yennis meaning "a good place."* Unfortunately, the day was hazy and distance shots weren't very clear, but I'm still learning the photography hobby, so this was a tripod shot focused on the three objects.
Later in the day we drove out to the end of the public road on Ediz Hook hoping to be able to see Canada (Vancouver Island)  across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, but fog lay low on the water even though there was a brisk breeze. The second shot across Port Angeles Harbor show the City of Port Angeles, the foothills, and the Elwha River (right) and Klahhane Ranges of the Olympic Mountains. Hopefully, with a clearer day and more experience this shot will come out better the next time.
Nothing much else happened on our little trip. We did take a little drive after leaving Ediz Hook, but went back to the hotel for a nap before dinner. I didn't even take the computer. It was a time for relaxation and that's pretty much all I did.
* Washington State Place Names, James W. Phillips, U of Washington Press, 1971
Current Mood:  happy
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Okay, it happens.
You simply have to accept that once you have this shit, it will come to dominate your life more and more until one day you get up the nerve to say "STOP!" and hope for the best, or worse, you get up too much nerve of select the nearest exit to end the agony of never seeing sunshine even on a bright sunny day.
Haven't written nary a thing all week except for a second entry to the Glimmer Train Best Start contest. It was something about a truck driver who has run off the road going over the Blue Mountains and is being held up by a larch, a piece of which has skewered him through the chest. He will die, of course, if the story continues.
Other than that, I haven't touched the book. I haven't even thought about it. Well, I have thought around it, mostly about being too damned depressed to write.
We leave tomorrow morning for Port Angeles. I'm hoping for a pleasant trip and a beautiful view out over the Strait (of Juan de Fuca).
Current Mood:  depressed
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What can I say? What's it been, seven years? That's a long time, but I'm fairly certain there are those who have suffered a lifetime with this shit.
Last week was a waste, until Thursday when I read an email I'd received earlier from Glimmer Train. They're having a new contest titled "Best Starts" for new writers such as me. Basically, it's the first part of a story up to 1,000 words that you're currently working on. I went back to chapter one of the book and worked very hard getting it up to snuff to submit, which I did last night.
So, at least it wasn't a completely wasted week. The story has changed a bit, too. Up until this week I had the main character in a committed relationship, but decided to go make him a loner, a lonely loner. This way I can explore his relationships with his imaginary, unremembered self; the little boy who ran away from home after being discovered kissing another boy, which he didn't, the running away, that is.
We're going to Port Angeles for the Fourth. Supposedly they'll have fireworks off the pier and hopefully our waterfront view room will have a view of them. I plan on driving up the west side of the Olympics going and coming down the east side on the return home on Monday. It should make for a pleasant time away from the nest.
Current Mood:  blah
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 I went out into the garden yesterday to take a few photos and discovered the day lilies are starting. This is the first.
I've been working quite steadily on the book, and am up to nearly 10,000 words in 4 completed chapters. As often happens with my stories, this one has had a slight change in plot:
Charles Johnson's mother has died and named him executor of her estate. In any normal circumstance that might entail a little running around getting various papers and copies of the death certificate to assorted authorities. For Charles, however, this leads to a lot more since he hasn't seen his mother in forty-three years. He distinctly remembers running away from home at the age of twelve, but his mother seems to have a completely different story and this is only the beginning of the differences in the stories of Charles' childhood.
Okay, it's a psychological drama about a fifty-something who has to face a past he can't remember. Well, he can rememeber things from his childhood, like the father who beat and raped him; except, his mother says his father is her brother, quite possibly the man who raised Charles after she couldn't deal with the boy when she discovered him making out with another boy.
I still haven't begun looking for work, as I still want to wait until I'm certain the wife can fend for herself and possibly take herself to appointments.
Also, I want to take another trip next month, more on that later.
As far as today goes, well, I do have a son, but he will ignore Father's Day, as he ignore's Mother's Day, birthdays, and any other holiday that may occur. It's still hard dealing with the fact that we sent him away and he's decided, for the most part, to stay out of our lives. In other words, tough love cuts both ways.
Current Mood: content
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Last night I finished reading this Pulitzer Prize winner by Junot Díaz. Okay, it won the Pulitzer so it's on the required reading list. That's just how it goes around here. No, I don't know a lot of Spanish, but enough to get by. A good understanding of Spanish would help. No, I didn't know a lot about the Dominican Republic. It's one of those foreign countries that isn't mentioned a lot unless you're into U. S. intervention history. It's no wonder Dominicans want to live anywhere other than their home, which is a beautiful place, but the politics is for the shits. The N word is used liberally, maybe too liberally for some. I can't use it because doing so I'd be called a few nasty names none of which come close to PC insensitive. Díaz, on the other hand, was born in the Dominican Republic and encountered the N word in his daily life. It was part of his culture. For him to not use it would make the story either have a lot of ______ in it or simply not be worthy of the praise it received. What I like about it most is the footnotes which reminded me of The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien. They are very informative and provided a lot of background information that didn't have to be woven into the narrative. Now it's on to Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernières. I’ve had it on my bookshelf since 2005, but driving truck and reading didn’t work out. Unfortunately, now I seem to have a lot of time. Current Mood: content
Current Music: The Wonder of You, Elvis Presley
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