Sunday, January 02, 2005

Hazy and Dolorous

I’m in that wispy state that comes from waking abruptly from a 40-minute “am I really asleep?”-type nap. I'm acutely aware of all of my joints (is that a sign of kinesthetic genius?) I’m working on a restlessness that is the sum of six diet cherry cokes, four bottled mochas, five hours of sitting, staring, drawing (trying to, at least), watching, drifting.

It goes something like this: “Lost in Translation” plus big comfy bed plus late night/early morning, plus caffeine-induced jitters equals power nap (power trip). My dream (a by-product of conversations past, viewing material present, and illustration activities remote): I am one of those trippy Japanamation girls. Pink pigtails. Toothpick legs topped off with a pleated white skirt. Bangs that could define geometric laws of linearity. Eyes that take up three quarters of my face. I want to communicate (at least I think I do), but my black ovular mouth only moves in one direction (up down) and the whatever fills the ensuing talk bubble is certainly not English. I can only express my frustrations ocularly: the orbs morph into two slivers with three black lashes each. A crescent tear appears at each temple. Scene.

I remember – pre-sleep or post? Must be pre-, during the karaoke scene – a time when I could throw back some mid-shelf tequila and rock myself and the other regulars out to a song destined for (or already comfortably positioned on) a worst-of-all-time list. I remember Air Guitar Evan, and the point at which laughing at his strumming and grinding and vest-wearing shifted from logical to slightly uncomfortable. I remember the only bar with a Golden Tee I never saw anyone play.

4:30. Any Sunday: My least favorite time of the week. Too early to turn in, too late to take off the pj’s, too early to be creative (only after dark), too late to be productive. It’s 4:28. If this was 2004, or oh-three or oh-two or oh-one, I would be in a cab from O’Hare, slightly carsick and jet-lagged (no time difference, but jet-lagged nonetheless.) I would also be (balance, always balance) in awe of the three weeks’ progress of the icicles and in anticipation of winding down and catching up, of starting a new quarter and prepping for yet another first day of school. And of course, in spite of some lagging, nagging feelings of heaviness, I would make time for a new year’s welcome-back galavant to 1800.

Now: Time to fold the laundry, doff the pajamas (if only for a few hours), get behind the wheel and drive back to the ordinary. It’s Sunday, the last 4:30 before a string of five (sometimes six) 4:30s spent “on the clock.” There will be no 1800 tonight: no karaoke, no cleavage, no secondhand smoke, no amaretto sours or sours of any kind. This is a different kind of rut altogether.