I'm a crabby little apple at the moment. "Sleep evades me" is an understatement. Sleep is toying with me. Sleep is mocking me. Sleep is standing over me, dangling a ticket to Wisconsin in my face, and tugging it away whenever I reach. And when I resign myself and stop reaching, Sleep sets down beside me, puts its hand one quarter-inch in front of my face and says over and over again, "I'm not touching you." It's long since sedated all the sheep, so I have nothing to count. I tried goats, but there was an incident involving the horns, and a comment on my part regarding their beards - which I really *did intend* as a joke. Never trust a goat to have a sense of humor.
I haven't even cracked a smile typing this nonsense. For as my darling boy is singing, "it's way past my time to go to bed." I may be more amusing in my sleep-deprived stupor, but I'm less amused. Ah, insight. On a pratical note, I think maybe my desipramine dose needs to be raised. My anxiety was so high recently, for no reason really, and I seem to end up with at least some migraine symptoms by the end of every day now... very weird. Finally, that would explain why I'm constantly exhausted, even when I do manage some sleep, and why the sleep I manage is the coma-kind. Alas, I still haven't figured out how to discuss med-needs with my doctor without sounding like a strung-out druggie. Then again, at the end of my last session - when he bent with his knees to the ground, pulled a manilla envelope out of a drawer, pulled so-so-many samples of Effexor from the envelope, and proceeded to hand them to me, he seemed very much like a drug dealer. it was truly frightening. at this rate, I'm going to have to find a separate handbag to transport my meds in... I am so lucky my uncle is a cop in good standing. although we did have a very awkward interaction at my brother's concert, I still believe he'd pull through for me. but it's ok. unless they make a law limiting the amount of time you can spend in your apartment, or how many online journals you can have, I shouldn't run into much trouble. Legally speaking.
My brother's concert. I never got to talking about that, did I? Thursday. I went out. I couldn't bear to miss it. I survived a short car ride with my mom and her friend Robyn, a short talk with my cousin and a friend of hers, (not being in college around people who are in college is very, very weird), and getting my hand stamped by a man who could have tossed me into the air, caught me on his pinkie, spun me around, and blown me away like an eyelash. Yeah. They actually stamped my hand with the word "MINOR." That's a new one. it's kind of a disheartening thing to have stamped on one's hand. and as Elise mentioned, we're not really minors at this point. but whatever. pre-show wasn't too bad. once, we got into the back room of the restaurant/club where the show was actually taking place, I did alright. my brother came in from Kansas City, surprising John, and they were obviously both in I-have-the-coolest-brother heaven. John even talked up Dale's band and cd from the stage, crediting him for making the first album possible, and pointing him out as, "my big brother." it was a very cool moment to be related to them. he played the song he wrote for my mom, too, "a quiet little song I wrote for my mom" (the ignorant people laughed a lot harder *after* they heard it) ... and he played Lay You Down - the song he wrote for Tracy. I thought I was going to cry. I must have been dehydrated because there's no other way I would have survived that without my eyes going faucet-ish. He said, "This one goes out to Tracy and Dixie" and he played it, and for the first time that night, I sat almost still, with my hand cupped over my mouth. It was beautiful, as always. And afterward, after the entire show, all I had to say was thank you, and he knew what I was talking about. I had other comments, based on the rest of the performance - during which *no one* danced... stupid people. I couldn't very well lead the conga line, so I stayed on my stool, but I twitched around as rhythmically as possible. My stool was my dance partner, and I evetually drove everyone within a two foot radius away. (No joke.)
He rocks my fucking kneesocks. He is so good. The new album is amazing; the concert was amazing... He will so be a rockstar any day now. And as I told him after the show, "I am officially changing my name to John's Babysister." Even though I've always been against "baby sister" as a term. To some extent, I'm even against "little sister." Come on, people: "younger sister" - "younger sister" - it's not that hard. But babysister just seems to have a better ring, so far as names go. I'm in his album credits as Mary Brave, president of the fan club! Rock on! The doc is also listed, as one of two docs (the other being the md who made sure he lived through and recovered, as much as possible, from the injury to his hand when we were 7 and 9) who saved his life, "don't hold it against them." Silly, silly boy.
I can't believe this is my sad attempt to talk on the concert. Writing is better done in the moment, or at least, in a moment when one is awake. As for Jesus and the Beatle, I'll start with the latter. On the last song, this guy - who was wearing a funky-suit-type-deal came in, went right up near the stage, and started to dance. Now like I said, no one danced through the whole fucking show. So we all clapped when this guy started. I assumed he was their sound guy, or maybe someone with the lights. John leaned down during a rest to shake his hand. And the dude just went all out. He was doing this *awesome* dance. Right right, left left, right right, left left, point in a circle, spin 360, etc. It was *awesome* - and when he spun, and I saw his face, I realized this his haircut - longish and very dark - made him look exactly like a missing Beatle. I assumed he was a very cool character, but I didn't know his significance. I knew it was a big deal that John shook his hand, and that - when John said again after the song how that was it, and then instantly - "One more? BeatleBob says one more, so I guess we're playing one more!" - which they did - something important was happening. BeatleBob rocked just as hard to the second song, and then afterward he talked with John and Dale and even a little with me. (I was intimidated.) Turns out this guy is a huge deal in the underground music scene. He never shows up this early in the game, but he told John he's been trying to see him for awhile. He told John he was sorry he hadn't gotten there earlier, and began to discuss the best underground venues in the city. As in, "I can get you playing there." And as John said afterward - this was a small gig, on a Thursday, and there were so many other concerts that night - it's not like the guy didn't have anything else to see. Whee! Me llamo John's Babysister.
Oh, and Jesus. Jesus is the third member of my brother's childhood three muskateers. (The second plays bass in his band. The valedictorian of their class who confused the hell out of everyone by considering John the only person really worth talking to in N*land.) I haven't seen him since I was in, like, third grade. So, he's changed a little. He left college to write the Great American Novel. Or as he said to John, "I just sit down and try to write the most fucked up thing I can every time." He's reinventing literature, apparently; I've only heard hearsay at this point... but apparently it's a literary revolution, and he has seven books planned. The next JK Rowling? I don't doubt the status... but probably a slightly different creation.
He's gone from the poet's goatee to the novelist beard, and it really is hilarious to see him sitting at a bar in a small concert venue; with the beard, he really does look like the traditional Jesus images. Except he's not emaciated... Anyway. So, theology point for the day: The presence of Jesus can improve your night significantly, but in the end, it's BeatleBob who has power enough to be your salvation.
Hellfire, here I come.
...My mom is doing laundry. Soon, she will be home. This is only rotten because as I mentioned, I'm a crabby little apple. My room is a mess, mainly, and I need sleep. I can't fix the fact that my room is a mess until I have energy, and I can't have energy until something finally knocks me out and lets me *rest*... In the meantime, I'm snapping. And being bitchy just makes me crabbier, ultimately. Prominent canines aside, I'm not made for biting people's heads off. It doesn't suit me, and I don't enjoy the taste.
But,
sweet, sweet victory? Oh, I'll take that anytime. This crap will be followed with higher-quality crap as soon as the Sandman takes pity on me. So, judging from Neil Gaiman's characterization... I will never update again. Spuck.
If you're crabby and you know it, clap your hands...
~me
