Falling Asleep at the Keys...

There was a stickiness to the air that embraced us like a former lover. The way you might be hugged at a reunion by an old flame while your current significant other looks on with that tactfully perfect grin plastered across their face. Yes... the humidity this past week (and especially on Sunday after a breakfast trip sporting the same clothes donned the previous evening) has been downright uncomfortable.

So where have I been, you might be asking in earnest. And rightly so, for like many of my friends here in Ohio, the hectic pace of life has swallowed up my precious free time and I have been left unable to post. But fret not, for I was doing exactly what I said I was doing.

Writing.

Dancing with a muse. My latest play is "finished". I use the ubiquitous quotation marks because like all things in writing, nothing is ever truly finished... sure there's a point when the pen must lift from the page and be set aside indefinitely, but that time is not now. Not for this play. Actually, I'm not even to the point where I'd post the work. It has been submitted, however, for a new works type of festival. I'm to the point with it where it needs a good public workshopping. I need to see it, hear it, watch someone else take it and breathe life into it.

Keeping the name classified for now because the festival is local and while it's no secret that I submitted, the readers are anonymous and the playwrights' names are removed from the script, so leaking the title of my latest endeavor for the stage would be a bad thing right now. I promise to reveal it in the future.

Before moving on to further topics, let me just take a moment to pause and offer Keaton some props and some much deserved praise for his unfailing friendship and selflessness. Yes, big words, but all deserved. While the story of that night could be recalled as funny to some (it was much enjoyed by Snowflake), it needs not be recounted here. Let's just say that if not for him, I wouldn't have made my deadline. I owe him for his quick thinking and precognitive planning (and isn't all planning a little precognitive?). And should my play be selected for the festival, I'll owe him much more indeed. Thanks, bro.

Doesn't feel like there's much to post about, when at the same time there seems to be much on my mind. Perhaps it's the heat of August which stifles me every time I walk outside, or the uneven sleep pattern I've developed that spins my thoughts about like the groaning drier that begs, with each painful cycle of laundry, for sweet oblivion. It's growling right now—a sound that makes me think that it's time to close up the laundry room until we can procure ourselves machinery that won't kill us in our sleep.

I'm suddenly reminded of Olivia Soprano and the episode of the HBO hit drama "The Sopranos" in which she's so insulted by the thought of moving to a "retirement community" that she calls out to her son: "Go. Into the kitchen. Take the knife from the ham. And stab me, here. Here!" she says, hand beating against her chest over her broken heart.

Don't know why I thought of that just now. Guess my synapses jump about a tad in the moments before I drift off to sleep. Not in bed or anything, but I am tired and should be finding my pillow soon if I'm going to be any good at all tomorrow (or on time to the breakfast meeting with the boss).

But I feel the need to post. Probably because I haven't in so long. Didn't post about the Irish festival... and how I have a hat. Which is odd since I'm not much for hats. Never wore them. Didn't like them. Caps and me don't mesh. But this... this is one of those Irish wool caps. This one's from Donegal. It's brown. And I love it. Kirby likes to mock me some for wearing it, but I don't care. It rocks.

Fest itself was a treat. Saw some great bands and had a good day hanging with Keaton and Smokey. She bought a hat too. Wears it better than me. I think Keaton would agree with that statement. And the corned beef sandwich I had... Jaysus...

Buzzers. Klaxons. A countdown... oh... I drifted off and from the other room I can hear a movie. Alien. Or Aliens. Not sure which. Zubov is watching it. Sounds like a thrilling part. Sigourney Weaver is not happy, whatever's going on...

And Apollo is napping beside me. It's good to see the little spaz calm down. I know he's just lonely. Most of the day we're all at work, so he's just playful and trying to be fun when we get home. Gotta love that. He's the most puppy-like cat I've ever met. Actually greets me everyday when I come home. How cool is that?

Okay... I've descended into pet-talk. A solid sign that the post has either gone on too long or it's way past my bedtime. And sometimes it's both.

Oooh... the countdown ended in Zubov's movie. I think something blew up.

And on that random and anti-climactic note, I will sign off and try to post again this weekend. Wow... I didn't even write about the coming days. Of course there's still so much to catch up on, so maybe jumping ahead isn't quite fair.

Non sequiter: Emma Thompson is a fantastic actress and anyone who writes should see "Stranger Than Fiction" for her alone (the rest of them are great too).

See how the brain just warps into lunacy when it's falling asleep? Like a toddler trying to stay awake, it's reaching for anything to think about just to avoid surrendering control to the subconscious.

Taming of the Shrew. Battlestar Galactica. The clock strikes one. And the post ran away with my brain. G'night.