Showing posts with label hello again 4am. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hello again 4am. Show all posts
Monday, December 19, 2011
Small hours on a German station, MAKE VIDEO BLOG
If you're going to watch any of these stupid videos of mine, watch this one. The South Coast of Iceland is just gorgeous, the little glimpses provided in here don't even give you a taste.
While I was standing inside the glacier I took my glove off to run my hand over the ice, and started laughing, as I do when something delights me.
"It's dry!"
"Yes," said the Dutch Man still lingering. "It is ice."
"Yes, but it's dry!"
He nodded, and stated again, a little slower, "it is ice."
There was too much of a language barrier between us for me to explain that where I come from, no ice stays dry.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
The Auxilaries of a Mental War
Knights of Seroquel
They prescribe this terracotta-coloured tablet to treat almost everything, from the look of it. Everything related to a fucked up mind, at any rate. And hayfever.
I do not have a prescription. The doctor dropped a sample box of 10 in my hands. "One of these every day," he said. "Immediately. It will take the edge off until the Cymbalta kicks in."
I think more appropriate wording would have been, "It will take you off the edge."
When I got home I immediately googled everything I could about the drug. It had taken a lot, too much, to get to the point of asking for anti-depressants. What I learned left me crumpled and weeping. Side effects. I didn't want to take it. I was afraid of taking it. I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't.
I started taking it.
The first tablet hit me like a brick. An intense sleep that was extraordinarily difficult to come out of. The struggle to simply gain a semblance of wakefulness left me without the resources to sit up, let alone get up. Gravity could not decide what angle it was aligned at. I had to sit down in the shower. That wasn't enough. I had to get out of the shower, throw a towel on the floor because I couldn't dry myself and lie there, hoping that soon, I would have control of my body again, and soon, the world would stop moving.
I was slow, incredibly spacey for the day.
At night I forced myself to take a second tablet.
The morning was still hard, but not as bad as the previous. As the days went on, the side-effects reeled themselves in. In a couple of days I was off the edge. I enjoyed knowing that taking the tablet would guarantee sleep.
On the Saturday, a week after I'd started taking Seroquel, I could not move. I did nothing but lay on my bed in a strange fuzzy stupor. My brain filling up with serotonin, I'm told. I cut Seroquel to a half dose.
After a few nights on a half dose, I fell apart. Upped the dose again. Halved it again. Determined to be clear of it before I ran out.
On the follow-up appointment a week later, I explained I'd stopped taking Seroquel all together and hadn't slept for three days. The doctor said that shouldn't happen, Seroquel doesn't work like that. But it did. I saw 4am three times in a row.
His solution was to give me another three sample packets.
Sappers of Cymbalta
"One of these a day, in the morning," the doctor said. "This will take a few weeks to kick in."
My prescription was for 30mg. I went home and read and read and read and cried. There were so many risks that came with the drug, more than I had the strength to face. I couldn't take it, I couldn't not take it.
I took it, and told no one.
Side effects were immediate. Incredible bouts of yawning, accompanied by a super-saturation of oxygen in the blood, so that I had all the symptoms of hyperventilation without hyperventilating. My fingers and toes were constantly fizzing and thick, perpetual tight-wound energy in my belly, all of which increased dramatically if I should begin talking for any length. Laughing became quite the ordeal. My appetite vanished.
I was off the edge, and lost in space. But off the edge. Off the edge.
When I stopped the Seroquel entirely, and a few days had passed for anything like withdrawal to wear off, I was okay. Just okay. Merely okay. Solidly okay. Lower than the odd bout of mania that had struck me when on both drugs, not without sudden squalls of horror and despair, but far more level. Able to cope with the work place, the supermarket, the world we live in. I was sleeping okay. The yawning never really stopped, and my mouth is continually dry, but they are minor side effects, considering.
Cymbalta is slower to work, more insidious, but gentler too.
My dreams are stronger. This I love.
Siege Engines of Cymbalta
On the follow up appointment, the doctor issued me a new prescription for 60mg, to begin when I'd finished my current one. He didn't say why, and I, out of my mind, didn't ask.
The first day, my stomach began churning, and without warning I was vulnerable. Anxiety and dread. I went home early.
I could not sleep. At all. The following day this was augmented by the onset of restlessness. My bones ache. My muscles constantly feel as though they are about to spasm. I feel forever just shy of the peak of some massive eruption, and explosion of mayhem and energy and pure flailing.
Insomnia is no stranger. I could deal with insomnia. But restlessness? I don't know restlessness. Apparently I've taken for granted for 29 years my ability to sit or lie still and and comfortably.
It slays me. I thrash and thrash and thrash, mind and body together, doing absolutely nothing at all.
Nights of Seroquel
I am glad the doctor gave me these spare packets.
Half a tablet is not enough.
I take whole tablets. Last night, I tried a half dose. Just shy of midnight, I got up to swallow the other half. This morning, I was driven from bed when my body began to ache and the urge to thrash made my eyes hot.
...The Counsellor Asks Questions
I support the idea of counselling entirely. It does real good for a lot of people, guides many in the processing of difficult realities. I've encouraged many to pursue it, stick with it, simply consider the idea as an option.
Personally, I hate counselling. The idea is abhorrent. The verbal articulation of my emotions and thought processes is...look at the title of this blog; Silence Without. Because I cannot speak my demons aloud, and that is what counselling involves. There are a myriad of other reasons which I will not get into here, but suffice to say, counselling is exactly what I do not want.
I accepted the referral.
He listened well, very well. A good listener is an incredibly rare treasure. He paid good attention to the words I chose. The usual tactic of sitting without speaking to goad me into filling the silence of my own volition didn't work. I fear no silence. It was he who eventually broke every silence. I couldn't look at him, and when I cried I didn't want a witness, and would spend those hours with my face covered with my hands.
All his questions I answered frankly, not offering more than what was requested. I was trying, and that was the best I could do.
We did not agree philosophically. He belonged to a school of thought that focused on positivity, with a motto similar to, "You just gotta believe." His aim was to restore hope to me, to find a positive way out.
"There must be a positive way through," he said in the first session.
"Does there?"
He was taken aback. "Yes. There must be."
I wasn't challenging the idea out of despair or pessimism. I merely acknowledge that there is no 'must'. We not owed anything. I may get better. I may not. Both are equally possible.
I had my last appointment with him on Tuesday. Because he pays attention, he asked if I thought I had got any benefit out of these sessions.
In the balance of things...what benefit there may be is outweighed by the dread and anxiety they cause. These sessions leave me wrung out. They bring everything to the surface, and it takes me a couple of days to recover before I can function properly as a social creature again, and then I simply move on to dreading and stressing about the next session. I am not in a position of strength. This is more than I can cope with.
And no, I did not think there was much benefit to be had. There was nothing he had said that I had not already considered myself.
I tried. Knowing my own bias against counselling, I tried, and gave more than a good shot at it.
I never want counselling again.
What am I?
I'm on medication for bipolar. The counsellor said he saw something that looked like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in me. I can function. Am I okay? My hands have been much worse these past few weeks. I'm on prescription pain killers too. The door trays of my fridge make me look like a junkie. I have the alarm set for 6.30 on the weekends so I can take my dose on time. Grocery shopping is impossible with no appetite. Is there a future here?
No.
Something has to change.
EDITED TO ADD: I left this post slanting somewhat in the wrong direction. Apart from more coherent dreams (which I adore, but for people who are used to actually sleeping while asleep (MADNESS!!!!!), instead of saving the goddamn world, they can be the worst side effect of all; see Dooce's experience with Cymbalta, which led to her eventually switching medication), the Cymbalta appears to have sorted out my blood sugar, or metabolism, or whatever it is that our fuel systems are based on.
Previously, I had shyte blood sugar. I rarely had the opportunity to be hungry as a blood sugar crash would make itself known before minor things like an empty belly had the opportunity to occur. Some people get grouchy when they're hungry. I get faint, weak, dizzy, and pretty much live in constant fear of fainting. When that happens, I have to eat something, anything, right then. If I'm out and about I make sure I have food on me all the time. That's how ridiculous it is.
Now? Dude. Apparently this is how most people feel? You know, all...normal and...not about to collapse.
BIZARRE.
I am so totally okay with this.
And all side effects aside, the meds are working.
There is distance now between me and the horror, enough distance for me to cope with being a living waking entity, to take care of myself and even, occasionally, take care of others. I am not a zombie. (Well, apart from the tail end of the Seroquel in the mornings, but I was never a bright spark in the mornings anyway.) I feel. When I laugh, it's because I am laughing. I can have a good time and carry that good feeling away and inside me for the rest of the day. I can be upset and angered and brood like the champion brooder I am.
I can do all that, and I am not on the edge.
I don't want to be medicated. I remain afraid, very afraid of what the drugs are doing to my mind and thought processes, especially as I cannot control them and do not entirely understand how they work.
But, they do work.
I am alive because of I am medicated. I am alive. Because of that, I will not regret taking medication, nor will I be ashamed of it.
Quetiapine [Seroquel] is indicated for the treatment of schizophrenia, depressive episodes associated with bipolar disorder, acute manic episodes associated with bipolar I disorder (as either monotherapy or adjunct therapy to lithium or valproate), and maintenance treatment of bipolar I disorder (as adjunct therapy to lithium or divalproex)...
It is sometimes used off-label, often as an augmentation agent, to treat conditions such as obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, restless legs syndrome, autism, alcoholism, depression, Tourette syndrome, and has been used by physicians as a sedative for those with sleep disorders or anxiety disorders.
At very low doses (<25 mg), quetiapine acts primarily as a histamine receptor blocker (antihistamine)...
They prescribe this terracotta-coloured tablet to treat almost everything, from the look of it. Everything related to a fucked up mind, at any rate. And hayfever.
I do not have a prescription. The doctor dropped a sample box of 10 in my hands. "One of these every day," he said. "Immediately. It will take the edge off until the Cymbalta kicks in."
I think more appropriate wording would have been, "It will take you off the edge."
When I got home I immediately googled everything I could about the drug. It had taken a lot, too much, to get to the point of asking for anti-depressants. What I learned left me crumpled and weeping. Side effects. I didn't want to take it. I was afraid of taking it. I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't.
I started taking it.
The first tablet hit me like a brick. An intense sleep that was extraordinarily difficult to come out of. The struggle to simply gain a semblance of wakefulness left me without the resources to sit up, let alone get up. Gravity could not decide what angle it was aligned at. I had to sit down in the shower. That wasn't enough. I had to get out of the shower, throw a towel on the floor because I couldn't dry myself and lie there, hoping that soon, I would have control of my body again, and soon, the world would stop moving.
I was slow, incredibly spacey for the day.
At night I forced myself to take a second tablet.
The morning was still hard, but not as bad as the previous. As the days went on, the side-effects reeled themselves in. In a couple of days I was off the edge. I enjoyed knowing that taking the tablet would guarantee sleep.
On the Saturday, a week after I'd started taking Seroquel, I could not move. I did nothing but lay on my bed in a strange fuzzy stupor. My brain filling up with serotonin, I'm told. I cut Seroquel to a half dose.
After a few nights on a half dose, I fell apart. Upped the dose again. Halved it again. Determined to be clear of it before I ran out.
On the follow-up appointment a week later, I explained I'd stopped taking Seroquel all together and hadn't slept for three days. The doctor said that shouldn't happen, Seroquel doesn't work like that. But it did. I saw 4am three times in a row.
His solution was to give me another three sample packets.
Sappers of Cymbalta
The main uses of duloxetine [Cymbalta] are in major depressive disorder, general anxiety disorder, stress urinary incontinence, painful peripheral neuropathy, fibromyalgia, and chronic musculoskeletal pain associated with osteoarthritis and chronic lower back pain.
Duloxetine [Cymbalta] failed the US approval for stress urinary incontinence amidst concerns over liver toxicity and suicidal events; however, it was approved for this indication in Europe.
"One of these a day, in the morning," the doctor said. "This will take a few weeks to kick in."
My prescription was for 30mg. I went home and read and read and read and cried. There were so many risks that came with the drug, more than I had the strength to face. I couldn't take it, I couldn't not take it.
I took it, and told no one.
Side effects were immediate. Incredible bouts of yawning, accompanied by a super-saturation of oxygen in the blood, so that I had all the symptoms of hyperventilation without hyperventilating. My fingers and toes were constantly fizzing and thick, perpetual tight-wound energy in my belly, all of which increased dramatically if I should begin talking for any length. Laughing became quite the ordeal. My appetite vanished.
I was off the edge, and lost in space. But off the edge. Off the edge.
When I stopped the Seroquel entirely, and a few days had passed for anything like withdrawal to wear off, I was okay. Just okay. Merely okay. Solidly okay. Lower than the odd bout of mania that had struck me when on both drugs, not without sudden squalls of horror and despair, but far more level. Able to cope with the work place, the supermarket, the world we live in. I was sleeping okay. The yawning never really stopped, and my mouth is continually dry, but they are minor side effects, considering.
Cymbalta is slower to work, more insidious, but gentler too.
My dreams are stronger. This I love.
Siege Engines of Cymbalta
On the follow up appointment, the doctor issued me a new prescription for 60mg, to begin when I'd finished my current one. He didn't say why, and I, out of my mind, didn't ask.
The first day, my stomach began churning, and without warning I was vulnerable. Anxiety and dread. I went home early.
I could not sleep. At all. The following day this was augmented by the onset of restlessness. My bones ache. My muscles constantly feel as though they are about to spasm. I feel forever just shy of the peak of some massive eruption, and explosion of mayhem and energy and pure flailing.
Insomnia is no stranger. I could deal with insomnia. But restlessness? I don't know restlessness. Apparently I've taken for granted for 29 years my ability to sit or lie still and and comfortably.
It slays me. I thrash and thrash and thrash, mind and body together, doing absolutely nothing at all.
Nights of Seroquel
I am glad the doctor gave me these spare packets.
Half a tablet is not enough.
I take whole tablets. Last night, I tried a half dose. Just shy of midnight, I got up to swallow the other half. This morning, I was driven from bed when my body began to ache and the urge to thrash made my eyes hot.
...The Counsellor Asks Questions
I support the idea of counselling entirely. It does real good for a lot of people, guides many in the processing of difficult realities. I've encouraged many to pursue it, stick with it, simply consider the idea as an option.
Personally, I hate counselling. The idea is abhorrent. The verbal articulation of my emotions and thought processes is...look at the title of this blog; Silence Without. Because I cannot speak my demons aloud, and that is what counselling involves. There are a myriad of other reasons which I will not get into here, but suffice to say, counselling is exactly what I do not want.
I accepted the referral.
He listened well, very well. A good listener is an incredibly rare treasure. He paid good attention to the words I chose. The usual tactic of sitting without speaking to goad me into filling the silence of my own volition didn't work. I fear no silence. It was he who eventually broke every silence. I couldn't look at him, and when I cried I didn't want a witness, and would spend those hours with my face covered with my hands.
All his questions I answered frankly, not offering more than what was requested. I was trying, and that was the best I could do.
We did not agree philosophically. He belonged to a school of thought that focused on positivity, with a motto similar to, "You just gotta believe." His aim was to restore hope to me, to find a positive way out.
"There must be a positive way through," he said in the first session.
"Does there?"
He was taken aback. "Yes. There must be."
I wasn't challenging the idea out of despair or pessimism. I merely acknowledge that there is no 'must'. We not owed anything. I may get better. I may not. Both are equally possible.
I had my last appointment with him on Tuesday. Because he pays attention, he asked if I thought I had got any benefit out of these sessions.
In the balance of things...what benefit there may be is outweighed by the dread and anxiety they cause. These sessions leave me wrung out. They bring everything to the surface, and it takes me a couple of days to recover before I can function properly as a social creature again, and then I simply move on to dreading and stressing about the next session. I am not in a position of strength. This is more than I can cope with.
And no, I did not think there was much benefit to be had. There was nothing he had said that I had not already considered myself.
I tried. Knowing my own bias against counselling, I tried, and gave more than a good shot at it.
I never want counselling again.
What am I?
I'm on medication for bipolar. The counsellor said he saw something that looked like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in me. I can function. Am I okay? My hands have been much worse these past few weeks. I'm on prescription pain killers too. The door trays of my fridge make me look like a junkie. I have the alarm set for 6.30 on the weekends so I can take my dose on time. Grocery shopping is impossible with no appetite. Is there a future here?
No.
Something has to change.
EDITED TO ADD: I left this post slanting somewhat in the wrong direction. Apart from more coherent dreams (which I adore, but for people who are used to actually sleeping while asleep (MADNESS!!!!!), instead of saving the goddamn world, they can be the worst side effect of all; see Dooce's experience with Cymbalta, which led to her eventually switching medication), the Cymbalta appears to have sorted out my blood sugar, or metabolism, or whatever it is that our fuel systems are based on.
Previously, I had shyte blood sugar. I rarely had the opportunity to be hungry as a blood sugar crash would make itself known before minor things like an empty belly had the opportunity to occur. Some people get grouchy when they're hungry. I get faint, weak, dizzy, and pretty much live in constant fear of fainting. When that happens, I have to eat something, anything, right then. If I'm out and about I make sure I have food on me all the time. That's how ridiculous it is.
Now? Dude. Apparently this is how most people feel? You know, all...normal and...not about to collapse.
BIZARRE.
I am so totally okay with this.
And all side effects aside, the meds are working.
There is distance now between me and the horror, enough distance for me to cope with being a living waking entity, to take care of myself and even, occasionally, take care of others. I am not a zombie. (Well, apart from the tail end of the Seroquel in the mornings, but I was never a bright spark in the mornings anyway.) I feel. When I laugh, it's because I am laughing. I can have a good time and carry that good feeling away and inside me for the rest of the day. I can be upset and angered and brood like the champion brooder I am.
I can do all that, and I am not on the edge.
I don't want to be medicated. I remain afraid, very afraid of what the drugs are doing to my mind and thought processes, especially as I cannot control them and do not entirely understand how they work.
But, they do work.
I am alive because of I am medicated. I am alive. Because of that, I will not regret taking medication, nor will I be ashamed of it.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
(Hark! And awaken!) "-but not necessity, and-"
It can take minutes for my alarm clock to drill down through my dreams and the barricades of sleep. "Minutes" is plural, and not specific. "Minutes" could mean four, or forty (frequently, it means forty). When the radio (being my second alarm; I never hear the first ten minutes of obnoxious beeper alarm) finally registers as external and irritating, I do not wake. Instead, I'll ascend near the surface of waking, only close enough to have gross motor functions and slap the snooze button.
This generally goes on for an hour.
(Do not ask how early I set my alarm.)
Some people can leap out of bed right on waking. I'm not one of those people. My brain needs several run ups before it can work up the gumption to breach the surface and wake the fuck up.
This morning, I heard the radio within a minute. The music dove straight down like sugar-coated electricity, and my mind shot up, wild-eyed and quite awake, and I listened.
I thought it was bagpipes at first, but it was the war cry of the fiercely needless. Deep booming drums. Addictive stick rhythm. And then they started singing.
I was awake, so very awake, shocked to be so ambushed before the day had even started by something that tasted...like...
A feverish trawl of the Triple J forums with the only lyric the song had gave me treasure. The responsible party is kyü, a Sydney-based band, and the song itself, Pixiphony, is available for free download at Triple J Unearthed.
If it isn't rare enough to find a song that affects me so, I discovered another unexpected present; they're opening for Junip in January, a gig for which I already have a ticket.
Such fortune worries me. Bad things are going to happen in balance.
Suffice to say, I did not get back to sleep this morning.
This generally goes on for an hour.
(Do not ask how early I set my alarm.)
Some people can leap out of bed right on waking. I'm not one of those people. My brain needs several run ups before it can work up the gumption to breach the surface and wake the fuck up.
This morning, I heard the radio within a minute. The music dove straight down like sugar-coated electricity, and my mind shot up, wild-eyed and quite awake, and I listened.
I thought it was bagpipes at first, but it was the war cry of the fiercely needless. Deep booming drums. Addictive stick rhythm. And then they started singing.
I was awake, so very awake, shocked to be so ambushed before the day had even started by something that tasted...like...
A feverish trawl of the Triple J forums with the only lyric the song had gave me treasure. The responsible party is kyü, a Sydney-based band, and the song itself, Pixiphony, is available for free download at Triple J Unearthed.
If it isn't rare enough to find a song that affects me so, I discovered another unexpected present; they're opening for Junip in January, a gig for which I already have a ticket.
Such fortune worries me. Bad things are going to happen in balance.
Suffice to say, I did not get back to sleep this morning.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Trepanation From The OutsideIN
Someone in my immediate surroundings, who shall remain anonymous, lost the ability to sleep in. Apparently their brain found the alarm function, and in fiddling around with said function set it to 7AM, and now this someone who shall remain anonymous wakes up DING! regardless of exhaustion or what time sleep was achieved, and can sleep no further.
I lol'ed to hear this, because I'm a jerk like that.
And then I started doing the same.
Did you know that an inner alarm clock was contagious? I didn't. It must have taken prolonged exposure, or maybe it had a long incubation period, but suddenly, DING! I can't sleep past 7AM.
I'm not cool with that.
Someone who shall remain anonymous has apologised for inflicting this on me. In light of such an apology, my brain has decided to go one-up, and for the past two weeks I have been waking up at THREE O'FUCKING-CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
WHY
I DO NOT KNOW
Stupid brain.
Unsurprisingly, I'm a little frazzled right now. A couple of days back I went to bed and to sleep at 7PM. Woke up, it was dark, my alarm wasn't going off so I sighed. Hello again 3AM. Rolled over to check the time and OMFG IT'S PAST NINE I'M LATE FOR WORK I'M no wait hang on that's PM.
I'd only been asleep for two hours.
Dreams have been a little too active of late as well, so what sleep I am getting is not particularly restful. I dreamed I was Hunter S. Thompson, in some lovely woodland glade, and I had a stick. One long thin stick. John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson of Pulp Fiction were out to get me. They had machine guns and chainsaws. It didn't end well.
Stupid stick.
I lol'ed to hear this, because I'm a jerk like that.
And then I started doing the same.
Did you know that an inner alarm clock was contagious? I didn't. It must have taken prolonged exposure, or maybe it had a long incubation period, but suddenly, DING! I can't sleep past 7AM.
I'm not cool with that.
Someone who shall remain anonymous has apologised for inflicting this on me. In light of such an apology, my brain has decided to go one-up, and for the past two weeks I have been waking up at THREE O'FUCKING-CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
WHY
I DO NOT KNOW
Stupid brain.
Unsurprisingly, I'm a little frazzled right now. A couple of days back I went to bed and to sleep at 7PM. Woke up, it was dark, my alarm wasn't going off so I sighed. Hello again 3AM. Rolled over to check the time and OMFG IT'S PAST NINE I'M LATE FOR WORK I'M no wait hang on that's PM.
I'd only been asleep for two hours.
Dreams have been a little too active of late as well, so what sleep I am getting is not particularly restful. I dreamed I was Hunter S. Thompson, in some lovely woodland glade, and I had a stick. One long thin stick. John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson of Pulp Fiction were out to get me. They had machine guns and chainsaws. It didn't end well.
Stupid stick.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
From Lake Baikal, With Love
There are degrees of insomnia, as any who've brushed with sleep deprivation well know. Sometimes sleep won't come because it (quite rightly) does not wish to inhabit a head full of stress and anxiety. Sometimes it won't come because you ate too much sugar during the day. Sometimes it won't come because you're not done thinking yet. Sometimes it won't come because you're not done crying yet. Sometimes it won't come because you (stupidly) read a scary book in bed and gave yourself the willies. Sometimes it just won't come, end of story.
For those cases in which the root of insomnia is purely thought related, I keep a well-stocked pile of munitions, each used with the sole purpose of distracting me long enough to calm the fuck down and get my unconscious on.
A movie generally does the trick, but occasionally I'm so worn out even the act of watching is asking too much effort of me. In those instances I fire off set of podcasts. They're not on my iPod. They live only on the laptop. No headphones, no visualizer, nothing to do with me. They read to me, and I do nothing.
Reading, in these instances, doesn't work. Ever. I spend a lot of my energy keeping other people's voices out of my head, for my own sanity. I suppose occasionally I go too far, and stagnate without external input, and the only cure is to have some outside voice feeding words in my ears that I couldn't have strung together myself, that have no source in my life. The differing presence of self lying in active reading requiring my mind's voice overlaying the prose and passive listening in which the narrative overlays my mind.
As a result, I've come to associate Jeff VanderMeer's story Logorrhea, as read by Jason Erik Jundberg, with extremes. It only comes out when I'm too far gone, and never fails to reel me back in. I hate and fear being in such a state, but if that means I'm granted permission to listen to the story, well then I kinda don't mind it. It wouldn't work as insomnia salvation if it wasn't an exceptional piece of work.
These are the things the masses do with your stories.
As of yeserday, Jeff VanderMeer's novelette Errata has been posted on Tor.com, as both eyes-only and podcast.
Given my irrational apprehensions, I opted for the podcast.
There's another form of insomnia, which I forgot to mention as usually I'm smart enough to avoid it: getting sucked into a story you love too much to voluntarily break free of.
I'm tired. Fuck you.
That was just fucking brilliant. It hops gaily between the absurd and the surreal, and I want to use the word 'subversive', yet I don't believe it is so tricksy and sneaky and fixated on revenge as to subvert. Why would it, when it can take off and do its own thing? Which is what it has done, and without apology.
There's also a penguin in it.
This is why he's been my favourite author for years, and I stalk his publications like a stalking thing. I'll never fear of reading the same thing twice under different titles. I hope there's a dead tree version of this, as I don't particularly want to condemn it to 4am visits.
In some weird synchronicity, the two stories podcast revolve around Lake Baikal, the largest fresh-water body on Earth. I fear now that I can no longer dream of travelling to Syberia to visit the lake, as with every listen its character solidifies, and this fictional lake cannot exist if I stand on the shores of its reality.
For those cases in which the root of insomnia is purely thought related, I keep a well-stocked pile of munitions, each used with the sole purpose of distracting me long enough to calm the fuck down and get my unconscious on.
A movie generally does the trick, but occasionally I'm so worn out even the act of watching is asking too much effort of me. In those instances I fire off set of podcasts. They're not on my iPod. They live only on the laptop. No headphones, no visualizer, nothing to do with me. They read to me, and I do nothing.
Reading, in these instances, doesn't work. Ever. I spend a lot of my energy keeping other people's voices out of my head, for my own sanity. I suppose occasionally I go too far, and stagnate without external input, and the only cure is to have some outside voice feeding words in my ears that I couldn't have strung together myself, that have no source in my life. The differing presence of self lying in active reading requiring my mind's voice overlaying the prose and passive listening in which the narrative overlays my mind.
As a result, I've come to associate Jeff VanderMeer's story Logorrhea, as read by Jason Erik Jundberg, with extremes. It only comes out when I'm too far gone, and never fails to reel me back in. I hate and fear being in such a state, but if that means I'm granted permission to listen to the story, well then I kinda don't mind it. It wouldn't work as insomnia salvation if it wasn't an exceptional piece of work.
These are the things the masses do with your stories.
As of yeserday, Jeff VanderMeer's novelette Errata has been posted on Tor.com, as both eyes-only and podcast.
Given my irrational apprehensions, I opted for the podcast.
There's another form of insomnia, which I forgot to mention as usually I'm smart enough to avoid it: getting sucked into a story you love too much to voluntarily break free of.
I'm tired. Fuck you.
That was just fucking brilliant. It hops gaily between the absurd and the surreal, and I want to use the word 'subversive', yet I don't believe it is so tricksy and sneaky and fixated on revenge as to subvert. Why would it, when it can take off and do its own thing? Which is what it has done, and without apology.
There's also a penguin in it.
I ask Juliette for advice sometimes. “Juliette,” I say. “Is Ed for real? Is the Book for real? Is James for real? Is this really going to work? Or is it a form of madness?”
“I dunno,” Juliette says. “I’m just a penguin. But I can bring you some fish, if you’d like.”
This is why he's been my favourite author for years, and I stalk his publications like a stalking thing. I'll never fear of reading the same thing twice under different titles. I hope there's a dead tree version of this, as I don't particularly want to condemn it to 4am visits.
In some weird synchronicity, the two stories podcast revolve around Lake Baikal, the largest fresh-water body on Earth. I fear now that I can no longer dream of travelling to Syberia to visit the lake, as with every listen its character solidifies, and this fictional lake cannot exist if I stand on the shores of its reality.
And throughout it all, a question on the cellular level rising slowly in the communal, generational penguin mind: Why?
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Fuck the upside. I want to sleep. More than two hours. You hear that, body? Stop that shit, or I'll put out your eyes. And eat them. With raspberry jam on toast. Then you'll be sorry, oh, you'll be sorry.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
New Job; The Prelude
Ah! Mon dieu! What is this?
This is two hours sleep.
Why is there no pants? This is not proper!
This is two hours sleep.
Pants! The sun is risen, it is pants time!
Yeah. Today is gonna rock the kazbar.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
don't you wish you'd never met her
It's like I'm at some party. I don't really know anyone here, and have managed to find niche and nook in the peripheral of groups, but I'm not engaging in any conversation and am drinking too fast. I'm nervous. Sleep is here. I caught a glimpse when I first arrived, and that was all it took. That one hard thump in my chest, and that shrinkage in my longer bones, and the party was doomed. At once devastated and ecstatic knowing I breathed the same air, inhabited the same space. Julius Caesar could have been present and I wouldn't have noticed. I've eyes only for Sleep.
Sleep doesn't even know I'm here. I force myself to remain, in this room, with this conversation about who knows what I'm not listening, because as much as I want to follow Sleep from room to room, I don't want to be some sad puppy dog chasing coat tails. It's enough to acknowledge the wreckage the sight of Sleep has done to me.
I watch as Sleep passes by the door, moving down the corridor, arms linked with some other man.
Another hard thump in my chest, further shrinkage in my bones. I can taste my jealousy, and wash my mouth with the last of my drink.
Someone else following Sleep pauses at the door, their gaze lingering and yearning. They turn and enter the room.
Oshitoshitoshit it's Insomnia. And there's an empty seat next to me.
Fuck.
I angle my body away, towards the group I'm not a part of, which helps not a bit. Insomnia makes a bee line for me, flops down heavily and too close and starts sounding off right away. Awkward sentences. Observations intended to be witty and clever but come off as try hard. Nervous laughter.
I feel like a toad, but I can't be seen with Insomnia, oh gods, imagine if Sleep saw me with Insomnia, it'd be a death sentence, a lifetime rejection. Not that it matters, Sleep is off somewhere sleeping with that man, but I can't, I really can't. I mutter something and get up, striding away with purpose and the illusion of direction.
I catch a glimpse of Sleep, lounging against a banister, one hand on a girl's arm. Thump. Shrink. Fuck. Keep moving.
There's a spare bench on the patio, and I slide on, giving those others at the table a nod. They read my posture, the jumpy dart of my eyes. One of them obliges and sits up, hiding me further.
Insomnia is not so green a hunter, and barrels out of the house with too much self-conscious bluster. A chair is snagged, steel legs screeching over the ground, and pulled up again much too close. Again, the prattle, the chatter, the inane comments that have no malice behind them but are so thoughtless as to be war-starting offensive. I give the others an apologetic shrug. Insomnia's embarrassing and embarrassed miasma chokes the patio. The group says something about it getting cold, and head inside. I follow.
There is Sleep, disappearing into a bathroom, pulling someone by the hand.
And this way, I destroy the entire party. With every passing encounter with Sleep, seeing that who I desire making out with every single other person present, bitterness hardens my joints and sets the line of my mouth. I sit myself at still other groups, knowing full well I bring about their doom as Insomnia, the one person I actively dislike, follows in my wake. The atmosphere is destroyed. People are leaving. I'm running out of cover. I run out of cover.
I sit on the couch where I started, staring at the carpet, and Insomnia talks to me. That voice is wearing away at my core, chiseling away the veneer of civilisation and polished manners, and fury raises its head to make a fitting companion of bitterness.
I tell myself this is fine. This entire situation is just fine. Sleep can go sleep with all the strays in the world. I don't care. Really. This is my choice.
I don't go as far as to make eye contact with Insomnia.
I'm fine. Really. I like it this way. I mean, I'm used to it. This is the way parties like this usually pan out, you know, I have a pathetic awkward loser magnet. People seem to think I want to listen. They just want to hear themselves talk, and need a cover. And Sleep, I mean, pfft. Who'd want that? Town bicycle, you know.
Insomnia never shuts up.
Five hours later, I'm in tears, but I can't leave, and Insomnia never shuts up. I'm on the verge, no, I am going to scream, the intent is there, the air is there, and Sleep walks into the room, nods at Insomnia, and holds out a hand.
I hate Sleep. I need Sleep. I'm starved and desperate and I take that hand without even the pretense of reluctance and let Sleep do away with me.
A couple of hours later, my alarm goes off. The bed is empty. Sleep is gone.
Sleep doesn't even know I'm here. I force myself to remain, in this room, with this conversation about who knows what I'm not listening, because as much as I want to follow Sleep from room to room, I don't want to be some sad puppy dog chasing coat tails. It's enough to acknowledge the wreckage the sight of Sleep has done to me.
I watch as Sleep passes by the door, moving down the corridor, arms linked with some other man.
Another hard thump in my chest, further shrinkage in my bones. I can taste my jealousy, and wash my mouth with the last of my drink.
Someone else following Sleep pauses at the door, their gaze lingering and yearning. They turn and enter the room.
Oshitoshitoshit it's Insomnia. And there's an empty seat next to me.
Fuck.
I angle my body away, towards the group I'm not a part of, which helps not a bit. Insomnia makes a bee line for me, flops down heavily and too close and starts sounding off right away. Awkward sentences. Observations intended to be witty and clever but come off as try hard. Nervous laughter.
I feel like a toad, but I can't be seen with Insomnia, oh gods, imagine if Sleep saw me with Insomnia, it'd be a death sentence, a lifetime rejection. Not that it matters, Sleep is off somewhere sleeping with that man, but I can't, I really can't. I mutter something and get up, striding away with purpose and the illusion of direction.
I catch a glimpse of Sleep, lounging against a banister, one hand on a girl's arm. Thump. Shrink. Fuck. Keep moving.
There's a spare bench on the patio, and I slide on, giving those others at the table a nod. They read my posture, the jumpy dart of my eyes. One of them obliges and sits up, hiding me further.
Insomnia is not so green a hunter, and barrels out of the house with too much self-conscious bluster. A chair is snagged, steel legs screeching over the ground, and pulled up again much too close. Again, the prattle, the chatter, the inane comments that have no malice behind them but are so thoughtless as to be war-starting offensive. I give the others an apologetic shrug. Insomnia's embarrassing and embarrassed miasma chokes the patio. The group says something about it getting cold, and head inside. I follow.
There is Sleep, disappearing into a bathroom, pulling someone by the hand.
And this way, I destroy the entire party. With every passing encounter with Sleep, seeing that who I desire making out with every single other person present, bitterness hardens my joints and sets the line of my mouth. I sit myself at still other groups, knowing full well I bring about their doom as Insomnia, the one person I actively dislike, follows in my wake. The atmosphere is destroyed. People are leaving. I'm running out of cover. I run out of cover.
I sit on the couch where I started, staring at the carpet, and Insomnia talks to me. That voice is wearing away at my core, chiseling away the veneer of civilisation and polished manners, and fury raises its head to make a fitting companion of bitterness.
I tell myself this is fine. This entire situation is just fine. Sleep can go sleep with all the strays in the world. I don't care. Really. This is my choice.
I don't go as far as to make eye contact with Insomnia.
I'm fine. Really. I like it this way. I mean, I'm used to it. This is the way parties like this usually pan out, you know, I have a pathetic awkward loser magnet. People seem to think I want to listen. They just want to hear themselves talk, and need a cover. And Sleep, I mean, pfft. Who'd want that? Town bicycle, you know.
Insomnia never shuts up.
Five hours later, I'm in tears, but I can't leave, and Insomnia never shuts up. I'm on the verge, no, I am going to scream, the intent is there, the air is there, and Sleep walks into the room, nods at Insomnia, and holds out a hand.
I hate Sleep. I need Sleep. I'm starved and desperate and I take that hand without even the pretense of reluctance and let Sleep do away with me.
A couple of hours later, my alarm goes off. The bed is empty. Sleep is gone.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
and then the tide came in
Sleep didn't acknowledge me till 5am last night, and the hours were long and nothing on my iPod was what I wanted to listen to. I suspect that will be making itself felt shortly. At least, I hope so. It'd be nice to sleep at a reasonable (ie, before 3am) hour tonight.
Ah, Melbourne. It's a chilly night, the rain has been lashing against my window, and my fingers are too cold to type properly. A good night for sitting at home with multiple cups of tea and a movie. Or doing tax. Meh.
Before I disappear into that dungeon of bizarre financial questions I do not understand I will share with you some things.
First; the Red Paper Lantern Medusa (for which I can find no wikipedia page).
The above link is to a Pink Tentacle article, which includes a video of raw footage shot by JAMSTEC, starting with a medusa and including a UFO at 6:11 and a poor jelly with its tentacles snared in the sub.
So, apparently hitch-hiking on a jellyfish is the done thing these days.
And at Zooillogix: Piglet Squid. Looong at that picture, I have the irrational urge to squeeze the little tyke till it pops.
ETA: Estimated tax return of $6. It didn't take long though, so I am thankful.
Ah, Melbourne. It's a chilly night, the rain has been lashing against my window, and my fingers are too cold to type properly. A good night for sitting at home with multiple cups of tea and a movie. Or doing tax. Meh.
Before I disappear into that dungeon of bizarre financial questions I do not understand I will share with you some things.
First; the Red Paper Lantern Medusa (for which I can find no wikipedia page).
The above link is to a Pink Tentacle article, which includes a video of raw footage shot by JAMSTEC, starting with a medusa and including a UFO at 6:11 and a poor jelly with its tentacles snared in the sub.
The JAMSTEC videos suggest that a variety of sea creatures regard the red paper lantern medusa as a safe place to establish temporary residence. In the video, the developing larvae of shrimp and sea spiders can be seen hitching extended rides on the jellyfish.
“We didn’t expect to find such a variety of organisms attached to the jellyfish,” said Dr. Dhugal Lindsay. “Humans apparently are not the only ones attracted to red paper lanterns.”
So, apparently hitch-hiking on a jellyfish is the done thing these days.
And at Zooillogix: Piglet Squid. Looong at that picture, I have the irrational urge to squeeze the little tyke till it pops.
ETA: Estimated tax return of $6. It didn't take long though, so I am thankful.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
waiting waiting waiting
I had a couple of drinks last night, because I'd crossed the line between tired-but-fully-functional and just plain fucked up. Alcohol and sleeping pills are the same evil to me. I don't want to lean on either of them, ever. Because they work, they're more than tempting. All the cold air falls out of the fridge while I stand there looking at a bottle of pills and a bottle of swill, knowing that either might give me a good night's sleep, knowing that neither will actually give me anything more than one single good night's sleep. I'd rather be exhausted and fucked up than lean on them.
But, every now and then.
It was a nice sleep. A relaxed sleep. I dreamed of hotels and lions. I was confused about who I was when I woke up, because my jaw didn't ache. I was so comfortable, so relaxed, until I remembered how to be me. Clenched jaw, frown, balled fists, tight muscles; a system of tension that seems to provide all the cues I'll ever need to know who I am when I wake. I'm one walking clench. A walking, talking, breathing, sullen clench of locomotive meat, braced against the impact of morning, afternoon, evening, night.
I'm going to get the picnic blanket out off the cupboard, and lie on my back in the backyard, with the trees, and the dogs, and the grass, and the wind. My feet are cold. That's okay.
But, every now and then.
It was a nice sleep. A relaxed sleep. I dreamed of hotels and lions. I was confused about who I was when I woke up, because my jaw didn't ache. I was so comfortable, so relaxed, until I remembered how to be me. Clenched jaw, frown, balled fists, tight muscles; a system of tension that seems to provide all the cues I'll ever need to know who I am when I wake. I'm one walking clench. A walking, talking, breathing, sullen clench of locomotive meat, braced against the impact of morning, afternoon, evening, night.
I'm going to get the picnic blanket out off the cupboard, and lie on my back in the backyard, with the trees, and the dogs, and the grass, and the wind. My feet are cold. That's okay.
Friday, February 22, 2008
#($*&@(@^#%
In 13 minutes, I get to go home. This is a good thing, as I didn't want to leave home this morning anyway. All I want to do is go to bed.
Where, I know, I will completely fail to sleep.
Again.
My god, I hate being awake.
Where, I know, I will completely fail to sleep.
Again.
My god, I hate being awake.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Me, Great White Hunter
Cockroaches are fast little devils, and when you don't have any insect spray, there's nothing else to do but hunt them across the bathroom tiles with a wad of toilet paper and ninja-fast reflexes. The trick is the manouver them into a corner, from which they cannot escape mushing.
The other trick is, not to let them get on the carpert, and then mush them, because roach guts are kinda...sticky.
Cockroaches are fast little devils, and when you don't have any insect spray, there's nothing else to do but hunt them across the bathroom tiles with a wad of toilet paper and ninja-fast reflexes. The trick is the manouver them into a corner, from which they cannot escape mushing.
The other trick is, not to let them get on the carpert, and then mush them, because roach guts are kinda...sticky.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
It's only insomnia if you're actually trying to sleep.
You know what Yoda said about trying. I'm not trying.
Around 2am I started listening to Lundberg's podcast of Vandermeer's Appogiatura. Lundberg reads well. He even does voices. Not enough people do voices. I'd read an earlier version of the story- no, that's misleading; I'd bashed my nightshift-addled mind against an earlier version, and lying there listening with a not-insomnia-because-I'm-not-trying-to-sleep-addled mind, I noted all the changes. They were only little, but they were right. Until the last segment, which was entirely new, and the story I thought I knew turned out to be entirely different and wonderful and not unlike having the carpet ripped out from beneath me, but instead of falling on my face and embarassing myself the wind caught me, took me for a tumble in the clouds and deposited me somewhere high and far from where I could see for miles and everything was clear.
But out there, somewhere, is the little story of dead arms and dirt I anticipated. Creepy and strange and now, disappeared. It will never be read out loud, sad little story.
I want to be read to. It isn't really something you can ask of other people, not without receiving a funny look and an extension of personal space. I should put out a personal ad, "wanted: reader. That is all." Or start a business, with a troupe of readers on call, to come to you whenever and where ever you may need a story read to you. Funny voices free of charge. Pillows supplied on request.
I think this is a sad little want.
Afterwards, I dreamed that I'd messed up history so badly, the history books on my shelves were spontaneously changing their titles and texts, as the history of the world wobbled about and tried to reassert itself.
I couldn't hear rain when I woke.
There are things you consciously give away when you move out. It's the things you didn't know you were losing that make you stop and wonder if maybe you made a mistake. Losing the sound of rain on a rusty old corrugated iron roof, for example.
You gain other things. Tiles, for example. Light globes, when dropped on a tiled floor, make the most spectacular, satisfying, comical 'pop!' noise this universe contains. I stood very still for 2, 3, 10 seconds, until I was sure I wasn't about to toss the second light globe on the floor just to hear it again.
Nothing in this soundscape drowns out the noise in my head. It roars, it mutters, it doesn't shut up. Come on, 4am, bring it. I'm not trying, I'm not afraid of you.
(I just don't like you.)
You know what Yoda said about trying. I'm not trying.
Around 2am I started listening to Lundberg's podcast of Vandermeer's Appogiatura. Lundberg reads well. He even does voices. Not enough people do voices. I'd read an earlier version of the story- no, that's misleading; I'd bashed my nightshift-addled mind against an earlier version, and lying there listening with a not-insomnia-because-I'm-not-trying-to-sleep-addled mind, I noted all the changes. They were only little, but they were right. Until the last segment, which was entirely new, and the story I thought I knew turned out to be entirely different and wonderful and not unlike having the carpet ripped out from beneath me, but instead of falling on my face and embarassing myself the wind caught me, took me for a tumble in the clouds and deposited me somewhere high and far from where I could see for miles and everything was clear.
But out there, somewhere, is the little story of dead arms and dirt I anticipated. Creepy and strange and now, disappeared. It will never be read out loud, sad little story.
I want to be read to. It isn't really something you can ask of other people, not without receiving a funny look and an extension of personal space. I should put out a personal ad, "wanted: reader. That is all." Or start a business, with a troupe of readers on call, to come to you whenever and where ever you may need a story read to you. Funny voices free of charge. Pillows supplied on request.
I think this is a sad little want.
Afterwards, I dreamed that I'd messed up history so badly, the history books on my shelves were spontaneously changing their titles and texts, as the history of the world wobbled about and tried to reassert itself.
I couldn't hear rain when I woke.
There are things you consciously give away when you move out. It's the things you didn't know you were losing that make you stop and wonder if maybe you made a mistake. Losing the sound of rain on a rusty old corrugated iron roof, for example.
You gain other things. Tiles, for example. Light globes, when dropped on a tiled floor, make the most spectacular, satisfying, comical 'pop!' noise this universe contains. I stood very still for 2, 3, 10 seconds, until I was sure I wasn't about to toss the second light globe on the floor just to hear it again.
Nothing in this soundscape drowns out the noise in my head. It roars, it mutters, it doesn't shut up. Come on, 4am, bring it. I'm not trying, I'm not afraid of you.
(I just don't like you.)
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
And Thus Mount Tessa Becomes Dunghill Tessa
(Hotel Unizo, Kyoto)
Time to bid Osaka adieu. As I was only staying one night on Koya-san, I figured I’d give the baggage forwarding service a whirl. Most of the travel in Japan is via the trains, and the trains themselves don’t have much space for large luggage. Some carriages have compartments down the end for bigger bags, but most only offer overhead rails. To get past this, there is quite an industry of baggage forwarding. You keep an overnight bag with you, while your big luggage goes on ahead to wait for you. It only cost 1270 yen to have my bag forwarded to Kyoto for next day delivery. I appreciate not having to lug it around.
Having checked out train departures before hand, I made sure I got to Namba station with plenty of time to wander around and find the right line. I’m a smart cookie. It took me 15 minutes of walking to get from where I got off to where I needed to be, and I wasn’t lost. The station is just that big.
Unfortunately, being early can only cover so many unexpected delays. There was quite a queue at the ticket window when I arrived, as three little old people and the station staff were deeply involved in something of great complexity. Great, great complexity. The minutes ticked by. I could see my train, just sitting there, waiting, but not waiting for me.
With five minutes to go, I left the line, bought a local ticket from the machine, and sadly bid the limited express adieu. There is only 20 minutes difference in travel time between the local and the express, but I was looking forward to a big cushy chair, I was. Not buying from the ticket window also meant I missed out on a free pass which would have covered transport to and from Osaka, and the buses on Koya-san. Oh well. There’s no planning for little old people.
The trip took just under two hours, the latter part winding through increasingly steep and lush mountains. The carriage was full of a large group, which might possibly have been a photography club. They were toting about all manner of cameras, from old fold up polaroids to giant Nikons with huge lenses and aperture meters. I’m probably sulking in the background of half their carriage photos.
At Gokurakubashi Station we switched to cable car, chugga-chug-chug, up to Koya-san station. All the way out, terrible muzak was playing, as soothingly voices thanked us for choosing to ride the cable car. Choosing to? There isn’t any other way up! The forest all around was full of thin and wide spider webs, and trees that were propped up with tripods.
From Koya-san station, I hopped on the bus to Okuno-in, an enormous grave yard. The second last stop should have put me near my lodging, but the bus stop announcements went funky, and I ended up at the grave yard instead. I didn’t really want to heft my laptop around all day, but I’d done it at Nikko, I could do it again.
Beneath the trees it was cool and very quiet, and the grave markers stretched further than I could see. A Buddhist grave yard, there were monuments erected by corporations – one of the first I saw was a space rocket – and families. I found one dedicated to the Australia, Japanese and Malaysian soldiers who had died in Borneo during the second World War. There were large, majestic buddhas, and little buddhas that consisted of no more than two rocks on top of each other. Most were decked with bibs, some with bibs piled on so high and many that the statues were lost beneath them. Many of the shrines were old and moss-laden, but the majority showed signs of being regularly attended and cleaned.
(space rocket memorial)
(one of the many paths through the graveyard)
(a pile of small stone buddha - probably Jizo, from memory, he who looks over dead children - and donald duck.)
(was quite intrigued by these little markers, actual working doors a child could squeeze through. can't help wondering where they open up to.)
Mosquitos were out in clouds. I even got bitten, once. That indicates that they’ll probably eat the rest of you alive. Mosquitos don’t bite me. I think they sense bad blood, and thus opt to buzz by my ears over and over instead. Said bite didn’t actually do anything. Failure to itch is failure to mosquito.
(prime realestate high density monuments)
(the little buddha, sometimes no more than two stones, were scattered where ever there was space, on an embankment, by the gutter, in tree roots, and all of them were well dressed.)
Unfortunately, I just didn’t enjoy the place. Continual lack of sleep, early mornings, running about and not quite eating or drinking right was starting to wear me down, my shoulders were kicking up a huge fuss from carrying my backpack, a monk snapped at me for taking photos when I hadn’t, I managed to not just break my incense at the Toro-do (Lantern Hall), but burn myself on it, and generally felt that the place didn’t want me there.
Nevermind. Can’t have a happy fun time giddy glow all the time.
I hiked out of Okuno-in (it’s a very large cemetery), and stared at a map trying to find my lodging, only to turn around and find I was standing in front of it. Huzzah! It was the temple Shojoshinin. Most of the temples on the mountain are open to guests. They’re not general accommodation, guests are expected to attend the morning services and eat the temple food. Some temples even require guests to copy out scriptures. Thankfully, Shojoshinin didn’t. My handwriting is bad enough in English.
Despite claims to the contrary, the head monk’s English was very good, and his warmth made me feel much better about myself. Every monk I passed while walking about the temple, whether they were sweeping or wandering about, greeted me with a large smile, and it was such a relief.
My room was on the second floor, a large tatami mat room which had sliding fly-wire doors that looked out onto a beautiful garden. There was a very, very narrow balcony that ran the length of the building. I don’t believe the poms in the next room realised that I could hear every word of their conversation, even the whispers. I tried making some noise, to draw to their attention that if they could hear me, I could hear them, but not luck. It was peaceful there, regardless.
(from my room to the garden)
Feeling better and able to ditch my laptop, I set out again to visit some of the larger temples of note at the other end of town. Buses do run across-wise, but the town is small enough that walking isn’t a problem. I had a comfortable stroll along the main street, checking out stores and feeling slightly overwhelmed by the number of temples present. They out numbered all other buildings, all of them working, lived in and maintained.
Kongobu-ji is the head temple of all the Buddhist temples on the mountain, and where the current abbot resides. It is quite a plain building, but every room contains stunningly-painted screen doors, showing the history of the mountain. There was a set of rooms showing the story of Kobo Daishi, the founder of the mountain and the man generally credited with creating the Japanese alphabet, hiragana. Another set of rooms was painted gold, with the seasons of the mountain intricately depicted in glorious colours (no photos allowed). Admission included a tea service, and I sat by a stone garden with tea and a sweet, and watched people come and go.
(the gate of kongobu-ji, plastered with seals of families, clubs, companies and the like)
(an anti-smoking poster up in the temple foyer. from left to right: As long as you don't look around your feet, the seas of Japan are beautiful. - A portable ashtray in hand. A stranger, but probably a sensible person. - I don't smoke in a crowd...but how many people does it take to make a crowd? - Gentle, moderate or strong, every breeze carries cigarette smoke. - In summertime, the arms that pass near my lit cigarette are bare. - I was looking for shells, but all I could find were cigarette butts. - I carry a 700c fire in my hand with people walking all around me. I've kept this photo full size, so you make study it at your leisure.)
From there I continued on to the Garan, which is a set of large temples and pagodas. It was quiet there, each temple markedly different from the one beside it. I listened to two women chant a sutra outside a closed and red-painted shrine, beneath the cedar trees.
(some of the features of the garan - Kondo (main hall), Koya Shiro (clock bell), and Daito (great tower))
I had intended to check out Daimon as well, the main gate to Koya-san, but I had to be back at Shojoshinin for dinner, and the buses were infrequent.
The bath was Japanese style, and while I was prepared to strip in front of other people, the only other person present wasn’t. She fled the room as soon as I entered. More bath for me! It wasn’t quite hot enough to really work out my shoulders, but it was mighty fine.
Dinner was an elaborate affair. We guests were called down to the first floor, and then led to a sumptuous tatami mat room. The walls and screen doors were painted plain and uninterrupted gold. The alcove at the end of the room was simple and elegant, and the carvings of cranes above it gorgeous.
The food was set out on three lacquer work trays; various soups, tofus, vegetables, tempura and garnishes to go with rice and tea. I’d missed lunch, and face planted into it.
(...my mouth is watering just revisiting this photo. i see kuromame! black beans cooked and so very sweet and delicious and nom nom nom!)
The other guests with me were British and I think Russian, and seemed quite cautious about every dish they sampled. I was able to identify just about every dish, and ended up explaining most to them.
Their hesitation blind-sided me. I don’t know how you can come to this country, and not go on food adventures at every opportunity. Further, I don’t know how you can book a stay at a temple, and then baulk at the food you know is coming. I know I’m not and have never been a fussy eater, and I’m probably more accustomed to any sort of asian cuisine than they were, but it seemed like such a waste. The fact that these monks eat this food every day, and have done so for centuries, is proof that the damn stuff won’t kill you, and that totally slaughters any excuse you have to be timid.
One dish, the highlight of the meal, was plain white silken tofu, cooked exactly as we do it at home; a block steamed, with soy sauce dumped over the top. This tofu, however, was fucking boss. It was king tofu. The first mouthful was exquisite; the thickest, creamiest tofu I have ever tasted. It was wonderful! It’s that difference of body and taste you get between skinny and full cream milk. I tried to savour it, and go through it slowly, but it was hard.
With the morning service at 6am and my growing backlog of exhaustion, I figured an early night was in order. So early, that I went to bed right after dinner. 7pm hadn’t passed yet.
I didn’t sleep.
Not in an ‘oh, I wasted an evening I could have spend reading or writing,’ but in an ‘oh, FUCKING INSOMNIA MUTHAFUCKA’ sort of way. When my alarm went of at 5:10am, I was already awake. I hadn’t slept. Fuck. FUCK.
I hate myself. I just fucking HATE myself.
I’d prepared for various meltdowns I thought I would likely have while travelling alone on the other side of the world with language difficulties, but I don’t have any way of dealing with insomnia. I mean, I’m doing my usual method: exercise. Every day, I walk for ages. Physical exertion doesn’t seem to be having the slightest effect.
It’s building up. It’s wearing me down, and it’s affecting, I’m letting it affect, my ability to enjoy myself. I’m not going as far or as long as I would. I’m not pushing myself, because I’m tired and cranky and would rather just sit and watch this great alien spectacle of life than explore.
I’m taking two sleeping tablets tonight. Oh yes. Maybe that’ll get me four hours of sleep.
Luckily, the morning service required attendance only, not any form of participation. I didn’t have to think or worry about etiquette, just sit and listen to the chanting of the sutras. And the American woman next to me who insisted on sniffing every couple of seconds. The sutras sounded like one enormous tongue twister, and once both head monk and his female counterpart tripped up. I admire such articulation so early in the morning, every morning.
Breakfast wasn’t as fabulous as dinner, but still full of tasty new things. There was a tofu cake I particularly liked, the rough sort of bean curd with carrot and mushrooms mixed in. Nom nom nom.
Check out wasn’t until 10, so I went and lay down for an hour. No sleep was involved.
Then, the elaborate transport hopping saga again; bus to Koya-san station, cable car to Gokurakubashi station, train to Namba station, train to Osaka station, train to Shin-Osaka station, shinkansen to Kyoto. It’s probably a good thing most of today was spent sitting in airconditioning, considering.
(shinkansen to kyoto. looking at it now, i think australian trains are trapped somewhere in ancient history.)
(yes. you are seeing right. it's a fruit salad and cream sandwich. i wasn't even hungry, but when i saw it, I KNEW IT WAS DESTINY AND I HAD TO EAT IT and yeah, it tasted like fruit salad and cream between two bits of salty bread.)
At Kyoto Station, I explored a bit. To my glee I found Café Du Monde. Yes! Now I can claim to have visited the one in New Orleans, and the one in Kyoto. The bein…I can never remember how to say the word, let alone spell it. You smarchers know what I mean. Those donut things. They’re even more heavily coated with icing sugar here, but much smaller. Like baby cakes.
(for ze nawlins smarchermooters)
(kyoto station has a bit of a far future space port thing going on...)
I had some time to kill before I could check in, so I visited Nishi-Hongan-ji and Higashi-Hongan-ji, the original Buddhist school set up by Tokugawa Ieyasu, and the competitor he founded when he realised the school had enough strength to be a threat to him. The competitor was a fair busy place, and although there were signs asking for quiet in a place of worship, little old people were busy nattering away to each other. In the courtyard was a little old man with a neat and very white beard, feeding a stray black cat. When the cat had enough, it wandered off, and he followed it. It sat down again not far away, and he sat and talked to it while stroking its fur. It got up and wandered back to the first place, and he followed it again, and pet it again.
The original school was surprisingly quiet, and closed up. Oh.
From the station I took the subway, and found my hotel was surprising ease. The map I picked up at the info office is good, much better than the LP maps.
Now, I’m just sitting. I found a theatre that does shows not far from here, and I’m aiming for the 7pm performance. As it’s advertised all over my English language flyers, it will probably be tailored for foreigners, and it is raining quite heavily.
It isn’t like I’d sleep if I had an early night anyway.
Time to bid Osaka adieu. As I was only staying one night on Koya-san, I figured I’d give the baggage forwarding service a whirl. Most of the travel in Japan is via the trains, and the trains themselves don’t have much space for large luggage. Some carriages have compartments down the end for bigger bags, but most only offer overhead rails. To get past this, there is quite an industry of baggage forwarding. You keep an overnight bag with you, while your big luggage goes on ahead to wait for you. It only cost 1270 yen to have my bag forwarded to Kyoto for next day delivery. I appreciate not having to lug it around.
Having checked out train departures before hand, I made sure I got to Namba station with plenty of time to wander around and find the right line. I’m a smart cookie. It took me 15 minutes of walking to get from where I got off to where I needed to be, and I wasn’t lost. The station is just that big.
Unfortunately, being early can only cover so many unexpected delays. There was quite a queue at the ticket window when I arrived, as three little old people and the station staff were deeply involved in something of great complexity. Great, great complexity. The minutes ticked by. I could see my train, just sitting there, waiting, but not waiting for me.
With five minutes to go, I left the line, bought a local ticket from the machine, and sadly bid the limited express adieu. There is only 20 minutes difference in travel time between the local and the express, but I was looking forward to a big cushy chair, I was. Not buying from the ticket window also meant I missed out on a free pass which would have covered transport to and from Osaka, and the buses on Koya-san. Oh well. There’s no planning for little old people.
The trip took just under two hours, the latter part winding through increasingly steep and lush mountains. The carriage was full of a large group, which might possibly have been a photography club. They were toting about all manner of cameras, from old fold up polaroids to giant Nikons with huge lenses and aperture meters. I’m probably sulking in the background of half their carriage photos.
At Gokurakubashi Station we switched to cable car, chugga-chug-chug, up to Koya-san station. All the way out, terrible muzak was playing, as soothingly voices thanked us for choosing to ride the cable car. Choosing to? There isn’t any other way up! The forest all around was full of thin and wide spider webs, and trees that were propped up with tripods.
From Koya-san station, I hopped on the bus to Okuno-in, an enormous grave yard. The second last stop should have put me near my lodging, but the bus stop announcements went funky, and I ended up at the grave yard instead. I didn’t really want to heft my laptop around all day, but I’d done it at Nikko, I could do it again.
Beneath the trees it was cool and very quiet, and the grave markers stretched further than I could see. A Buddhist grave yard, there were monuments erected by corporations – one of the first I saw was a space rocket – and families. I found one dedicated to the Australia, Japanese and Malaysian soldiers who had died in Borneo during the second World War. There were large, majestic buddhas, and little buddhas that consisted of no more than two rocks on top of each other. Most were decked with bibs, some with bibs piled on so high and many that the statues were lost beneath them. Many of the shrines were old and moss-laden, but the majority showed signs of being regularly attended and cleaned.
(space rocket memorial)
(one of the many paths through the graveyard)
(a pile of small stone buddha - probably Jizo, from memory, he who looks over dead children - and donald duck.)
(was quite intrigued by these little markers, actual working doors a child could squeeze through. can't help wondering where they open up to.)
Mosquitos were out in clouds. I even got bitten, once. That indicates that they’ll probably eat the rest of you alive. Mosquitos don’t bite me. I think they sense bad blood, and thus opt to buzz by my ears over and over instead. Said bite didn’t actually do anything. Failure to itch is failure to mosquito.
(prime realestate high density monuments)
(the little buddha, sometimes no more than two stones, were scattered where ever there was space, on an embankment, by the gutter, in tree roots, and all of them were well dressed.)
Unfortunately, I just didn’t enjoy the place. Continual lack of sleep, early mornings, running about and not quite eating or drinking right was starting to wear me down, my shoulders were kicking up a huge fuss from carrying my backpack, a monk snapped at me for taking photos when I hadn’t, I managed to not just break my incense at the Toro-do (Lantern Hall), but burn myself on it, and generally felt that the place didn’t want me there.
Nevermind. Can’t have a happy fun time giddy glow all the time.
I hiked out of Okuno-in (it’s a very large cemetery), and stared at a map trying to find my lodging, only to turn around and find I was standing in front of it. Huzzah! It was the temple Shojoshinin. Most of the temples on the mountain are open to guests. They’re not general accommodation, guests are expected to attend the morning services and eat the temple food. Some temples even require guests to copy out scriptures. Thankfully, Shojoshinin didn’t. My handwriting is bad enough in English.
Despite claims to the contrary, the head monk’s English was very good, and his warmth made me feel much better about myself. Every monk I passed while walking about the temple, whether they were sweeping or wandering about, greeted me with a large smile, and it was such a relief.
My room was on the second floor, a large tatami mat room which had sliding fly-wire doors that looked out onto a beautiful garden. There was a very, very narrow balcony that ran the length of the building. I don’t believe the poms in the next room realised that I could hear every word of their conversation, even the whispers. I tried making some noise, to draw to their attention that if they could hear me, I could hear them, but not luck. It was peaceful there, regardless.
(from my room to the garden)
Feeling better and able to ditch my laptop, I set out again to visit some of the larger temples of note at the other end of town. Buses do run across-wise, but the town is small enough that walking isn’t a problem. I had a comfortable stroll along the main street, checking out stores and feeling slightly overwhelmed by the number of temples present. They out numbered all other buildings, all of them working, lived in and maintained.
Kongobu-ji is the head temple of all the Buddhist temples on the mountain, and where the current abbot resides. It is quite a plain building, but every room contains stunningly-painted screen doors, showing the history of the mountain. There was a set of rooms showing the story of Kobo Daishi, the founder of the mountain and the man generally credited with creating the Japanese alphabet, hiragana. Another set of rooms was painted gold, with the seasons of the mountain intricately depicted in glorious colours (no photos allowed). Admission included a tea service, and I sat by a stone garden with tea and a sweet, and watched people come and go.
(the gate of kongobu-ji, plastered with seals of families, clubs, companies and the like)
(an anti-smoking poster up in the temple foyer. from left to right: As long as you don't look around your feet, the seas of Japan are beautiful. - A portable ashtray in hand. A stranger, but probably a sensible person. - I don't smoke in a crowd...but how many people does it take to make a crowd? - Gentle, moderate or strong, every breeze carries cigarette smoke. - In summertime, the arms that pass near my lit cigarette are bare. - I was looking for shells, but all I could find were cigarette butts. - I carry a 700c fire in my hand with people walking all around me. I've kept this photo full size, so you make study it at your leisure.)
From there I continued on to the Garan, which is a set of large temples and pagodas. It was quiet there, each temple markedly different from the one beside it. I listened to two women chant a sutra outside a closed and red-painted shrine, beneath the cedar trees.
(some of the features of the garan - Kondo (main hall), Koya Shiro (clock bell), and Daito (great tower))
I had intended to check out Daimon as well, the main gate to Koya-san, but I had to be back at Shojoshinin for dinner, and the buses were infrequent.
The bath was Japanese style, and while I was prepared to strip in front of other people, the only other person present wasn’t. She fled the room as soon as I entered. More bath for me! It wasn’t quite hot enough to really work out my shoulders, but it was mighty fine.
Dinner was an elaborate affair. We guests were called down to the first floor, and then led to a sumptuous tatami mat room. The walls and screen doors were painted plain and uninterrupted gold. The alcove at the end of the room was simple and elegant, and the carvings of cranes above it gorgeous.
The food was set out on three lacquer work trays; various soups, tofus, vegetables, tempura and garnishes to go with rice and tea. I’d missed lunch, and face planted into it.
(...my mouth is watering just revisiting this photo. i see kuromame! black beans cooked and so very sweet and delicious and nom nom nom!)
The other guests with me were British and I think Russian, and seemed quite cautious about every dish they sampled. I was able to identify just about every dish, and ended up explaining most to them.
Their hesitation blind-sided me. I don’t know how you can come to this country, and not go on food adventures at every opportunity. Further, I don’t know how you can book a stay at a temple, and then baulk at the food you know is coming. I know I’m not and have never been a fussy eater, and I’m probably more accustomed to any sort of asian cuisine than they were, but it seemed like such a waste. The fact that these monks eat this food every day, and have done so for centuries, is proof that the damn stuff won’t kill you, and that totally slaughters any excuse you have to be timid.
One dish, the highlight of the meal, was plain white silken tofu, cooked exactly as we do it at home; a block steamed, with soy sauce dumped over the top. This tofu, however, was fucking boss. It was king tofu. The first mouthful was exquisite; the thickest, creamiest tofu I have ever tasted. It was wonderful! It’s that difference of body and taste you get between skinny and full cream milk. I tried to savour it, and go through it slowly, but it was hard.
With the morning service at 6am and my growing backlog of exhaustion, I figured an early night was in order. So early, that I went to bed right after dinner. 7pm hadn’t passed yet.
I didn’t sleep.
Not in an ‘oh, I wasted an evening I could have spend reading or writing,’ but in an ‘oh, FUCKING INSOMNIA MUTHAFUCKA’ sort of way. When my alarm went of at 5:10am, I was already awake. I hadn’t slept. Fuck. FUCK.
I hate myself. I just fucking HATE myself.
I’d prepared for various meltdowns I thought I would likely have while travelling alone on the other side of the world with language difficulties, but I don’t have any way of dealing with insomnia. I mean, I’m doing my usual method: exercise. Every day, I walk for ages. Physical exertion doesn’t seem to be having the slightest effect.
It’s building up. It’s wearing me down, and it’s affecting, I’m letting it affect, my ability to enjoy myself. I’m not going as far or as long as I would. I’m not pushing myself, because I’m tired and cranky and would rather just sit and watch this great alien spectacle of life than explore.
I’m taking two sleeping tablets tonight. Oh yes. Maybe that’ll get me four hours of sleep.
Luckily, the morning service required attendance only, not any form of participation. I didn’t have to think or worry about etiquette, just sit and listen to the chanting of the sutras. And the American woman next to me who insisted on sniffing every couple of seconds. The sutras sounded like one enormous tongue twister, and once both head monk and his female counterpart tripped up. I admire such articulation so early in the morning, every morning.
Breakfast wasn’t as fabulous as dinner, but still full of tasty new things. There was a tofu cake I particularly liked, the rough sort of bean curd with carrot and mushrooms mixed in. Nom nom nom.
Check out wasn’t until 10, so I went and lay down for an hour. No sleep was involved.
Then, the elaborate transport hopping saga again; bus to Koya-san station, cable car to Gokurakubashi station, train to Namba station, train to Osaka station, train to Shin-Osaka station, shinkansen to Kyoto. It’s probably a good thing most of today was spent sitting in airconditioning, considering.
(shinkansen to kyoto. looking at it now, i think australian trains are trapped somewhere in ancient history.)
(yes. you are seeing right. it's a fruit salad and cream sandwich. i wasn't even hungry, but when i saw it, I KNEW IT WAS DESTINY AND I HAD TO EAT IT and yeah, it tasted like fruit salad and cream between two bits of salty bread.)
At Kyoto Station, I explored a bit. To my glee I found Café Du Monde. Yes! Now I can claim to have visited the one in New Orleans, and the one in Kyoto. The bein…I can never remember how to say the word, let alone spell it. You smarchers know what I mean. Those donut things. They’re even more heavily coated with icing sugar here, but much smaller. Like baby cakes.
(for ze nawlins smarchermooters)
(kyoto station has a bit of a far future space port thing going on...)
I had some time to kill before I could check in, so I visited Nishi-Hongan-ji and Higashi-Hongan-ji, the original Buddhist school set up by Tokugawa Ieyasu, and the competitor he founded when he realised the school had enough strength to be a threat to him. The competitor was a fair busy place, and although there were signs asking for quiet in a place of worship, little old people were busy nattering away to each other. In the courtyard was a little old man with a neat and very white beard, feeding a stray black cat. When the cat had enough, it wandered off, and he followed it. It sat down again not far away, and he sat and talked to it while stroking its fur. It got up and wandered back to the first place, and he followed it again, and pet it again.
The original school was surprisingly quiet, and closed up. Oh.
From the station I took the subway, and found my hotel was surprising ease. The map I picked up at the info office is good, much better than the LP maps.
Now, I’m just sitting. I found a theatre that does shows not far from here, and I’m aiming for the 7pm performance. As it’s advertised all over my English language flyers, it will probably be tailored for foreigners, and it is raining quite heavily.
It isn’t like I’d sleep if I had an early night anyway.
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