Sitting Writing at Midnight

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We have just gotten back from our trip to Ohio, and are in all the bustling preparations of readying ourselves for the trip to New Zealand on Thursday. I’ve been documenting our recent travels mostly late at night, getting in an hour or two by myself, reading and writing and listening to music and audiobooks. I’ve been inspired by Kelli’s daily blog, and have been writing nearly every day–trying to write both on my blog and journal and other projects, thought usually I can only manage to get two out of the three, and if I get to excited about something I’m writing, often it’s only one. However, I’m going to try to post semi-daily during the coming trip ’round the world, and am starting this week with some rather silly, tired, late-night posts I wrote in Ohio.

Some rather random scribblings from a weary, yet active brain, in a body sitting up too late one night. . .

As I sit writing, it’s ten-thirty–no! eleven-thirty. We switched time zones driving down here, and I’ve not been sure whether I should try and stay on my old schedule or create a new, since next week we’ll change time zones again. . . twice. *gulp*

But I digress. (You may ask how I digress when I haven’t even truly started yet. . . your point is well made.)

It’s late. I’m sitting on my bed listening to ‘Unnatural Death’ by Dorothy L. Sayers, and now and then pausing it to listen to the movements happening upstairs. Malachi is across the room, asleep. He had fallen hard asleep before I came down to write, sweet boy. Normally by this time I would be asleep, or at least laying down listening to my audiobook until my mind is so tired I realize I’m missing the plot. Then, as much as I don’t want to, I force myself to turn off the audiobook, and fall asleep–like a sack of bricks. (I shall continue to go off on rabbit-trails; I wonder if I shall find The White Rabbit? I really like the mental image that phrase pulls to my mind, and shall continue to use it–I do fall asleep hard, ‘like a sack of bricks’. It also goes well with a favorite compliment of mine that no one ever seems to use: ‘You’re a brick!’ that sounds so nice and Wodehouse-y.)


Creak-creak-creak. The boards above my head are talking to me. They give just enough information to peak my interest, but nothing more. They’re saying ‘someone is moving around! but oh no, you don’t get to know who.’

We’ve been waiting anxiously for a new little arrival, so when I hear the creaking floorboards, my eyes pop back open, and I’m awake like–awake like? Not a sack of bricks, quite the opposite; I’ve never seen a brick awake. Awake like. . . awake like an Amalia who isn’t quite awake enough to come up with a decent, strange analogy.

Now it’s a quarter past eleven–sorry, twelve here. The creaking floorboards haven’t stopped creaking, but the creaks are becoming less frequent. . . and I’m still quite awake.

Books and Me
Books. . . I’m quite happy here, thanks. Just bring me food every once and awhile, and you shan’t need to worry about me. I’ll be right here.

We went to a glorious book store today; three levels, new and used books of every description, and I brought home a couple several with me (you can see a (small) part of the stack in the picture above). One of them is Julie Andrews’ Collection of Poems, and I read from it on the way back. I’ve been reading more this evening, but my two favorites I’m coming back to are quite short and sweet:

Be Like the Bird by Victor Hugo
Be like the bird, who
Resting in his flight
On a twig too slight
Feels it give way beneath him,
Yet sings
Knowing he has wings.

and, one I’ve added to my memory already:

The Optimist by Anonymous
The optimist fell ten stories,
And at each window bar
He shouted to the folks inside:
“Doing all right so far!”

And now it’s half-past twelve (their time), and the creaks have reduced so much that my lively imagination has not much work to do. I think I shall lay down and let my laptop rest. . . then I’ll probably be back at half-past two!


3 comments on “Sitting Writing at Midnight

  1. Amalia, I still treasure the time you took me down to look at your room and we hardly made it past the bookshelf. Why do you think a person enjoys reading? What is it that causes them to want to come back again and again? That is such beautiful poetry, and a very enjoyable post.
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