9:00 a.m.

And, to close...

Say it with me: Yay!

I had a really good picture planned, but things don't always turn out according to plan when self-portraits taken after 24 hours of blogging are involved. Oh well.

Anyway, it's been fun, honestly, genuinely, even though I said to Caryn "I have nothing to write about" more times than I could possibly count. I came up with stuff, for the most part. And I'm truly sorry about 5:30, but I was basically non-functioning at that point, so I'm sure you'll forgive me. Right, then. To finish things off, I figured I'd go in for a good ol' numbered list. Because numbered lists are what I live for, or, more accurately, I wouldn't be able to make it through life without them, because I am a disorganized mess, and if I don't write things down, disaster ensues. But that's a story for another time. Or several stories for --

Whatever. Here we go:

1. To my sponsors -- Srah, Caryn, Anne, Rob, Sarah, Darlene, Waterhot and P. Diddy (wow!), my most sincere thanks. I appreciate it, y'all. Not only because you led me to write prose inspired by Britney Spears and dialogue about Gary Busey, but because you helped me do something good, and that is good of you.

2. Special big thanks to Caryn, my partner in crime and Blogathon madness. Huzzah and kudos. We survived another stretch of 24 hour online insanity, which is proof of how much we rock and will eventually rule the world and all of that.

3. To the people who cheered me on in my comments, in my e-mail and on Flickr, thanks. It really did help to keep me awake and going and seriously -- Bruce Springsteen counting really is priceless, and I shall also treasure that always like a schnitzel.

4. To the Blogathon team -- thanks for making it happen.

(Interlude: You didn't know you were getting an awards acceptance speech at the end, did you?)

5. I really think I've already covered it all, except, of course, that if you're coming to the fun late, you still can pledge a little, for a couple of days after this thing is over, so, um... if you want to. I'm just presenting the option, you understand.

That's that, I guess. But hey, I did get to write a few things that I kinda like, especially these:

Sketch: Insomnia
Sketch: Wishing Lesson
Sketch: At the Window
Sketch: Toxic (Britney. Come on.)
Sketch: The Great French Fry Caper (Gary Busey. Come on.)
Sketch: Drive (Maybe because I wrote it in 10 minutes?)

And especially...

Sketch: How Jimmy Lost His Shoes (that one was a lot of fun)

(And no, that's not all of them.)

So now I'm going to shut up and be done with this and go to sleep. Catch you later.

Love,
jamelah

8:30 a.m.

Progress Report #12

Well, I'm feeling pretty good about things -- it's about 8:30 a.m., and I haven't passed out once. So that's a plus, I think. It's clearly morning, and I have issues with sleeping during the day, but I have a feeling that I'll be able to overlook them, just this once. But maybe not, because I am kind of wacky after all, and I have been known to wait until my regular bedtime to go to sleep after doing something that requires me to be up all night, so as not to throw off my schedule too entirely. I have a thing about schedules, but that's another one of those secrets you can't tell anybody, because I have a reputation to uphold.

I'm tired, I know it's there, but I don't feel as tired as I actually am. Something about fighting off sleep for so long that now it doesn't seem to matter much. But that might just be the crazy talking again. I have been awake since 5:30 a.m. yesterday, after all.

What else is there to say right now? Can't think of anything. I have a couple of things in mind for my final post at 9 a.m., but those must remain classified for now... don't want to ruin anything for you.

8:00 a.m.

self
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: Sunday Afternoon*

The obligations have been taken care of, and there it is: the tiny window of time that's all mine before I have to jump into another set of things that must be done. The question of what do do with these small hours is one I don't like to answer, because there's nothing that's readily apparent.

Sunday afternoon is when people relax, isn't it? Mow the lawn? Read a book? Catch a movie on TV? I don't know what it is that other people do, and if I did, I'd do my best to avoid it. Being unexpected is ingrained so deeply that it's become a fault. This stubbornness -- this insistence on going a different way, finding another path, answering everyone's questions in a voice no one expects -- it hasn't particularly served me well, but I wouldn't ever admit it.

What of Sunday afternoon? It's good for thought, for remembering, for going over every written page like it's part of a Choose Your Own Adventure book, twisting the decisions into alternate universes where things might've worked better if only --

If only.

It's safe to dwell for an hour or two before skipping ahead, planning out what comes next and then discarding it entirely, because one thing a girl like me doesn't do is plan ahead. Planning ahead means being prepared for each possible eventuality, and in that, there's no room for surprise.

And surprise is the important thing. On the surface, things seem simple, but adventure is really only a matter of spin, and one thing I do like is telling a good story.







*Autobiographical? Heh. I don't believe in that sort of thing.

7:30 a.m.

Morning as usual

Well, I'm usually up -- though not necessarily at 'em* -- at this time of day, so it seems like morning as usual. What is morning as usual for me? Silence. Scowling. My one caffeinated beverage of the day (which is why the amounts consumed over the course of this event is probably enough to kill me). A cigarette, accompanied by thoughts of how I really need to quit smoking and what am I waiting for, anyway? E-mail checked, not because I care so much, but because it's an activity I can engage in without having to speak out loud. More cigarettes, with all thoughts of quitting gone for the day. Away from the desk, usually mumbling about how I don't know what I'm going to wear. Plug in the iron, then brush teeth while waiting for it to get warm. Pick out clothes and iron them. Get dressed, search for shoes, find a shoe and then hunt for other shoe (without fail nearly every day), and sit around and wait until it is time to go to work. Arriving at the office is when any semblance of predictability disappears, because no two days at my job are the same.**

So, really, this isn't anything like a regular morning at all.







*When I was a kid, I thought it was "up and Adam" and I really had no idea what that meant. But then, I thought my cousin Eric's name was pronounced "Earache" until I was 10, so you know, I'm weird about words sometimes.

**I'm a nighttime showerer, which is why this activity is absent from my ritual. I, like most people, enjoy being clean.

7:00 a.m.

i didn't drink all these....
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Junkie

Some would say that I have a problem. Usually, they're not talking about Diet Coke when they say this, but now is not the time to get hung up on details.

In any case, I didn't drink all of these (really, I swear), but I did contribute to the collection quite generously over the course of my Blogathon 2005 experience. I could make a pointed comment about contributing generously, but I'm just gonna let it go, because, yeah, that generosity thing -- oh, baby, I've got it.

I also have obviously completely given up any pretense of writing well-thought-out prose pieces (except, of course, none of the prose pieces I posted earlier were of the well-thought-out category... they were more of the write-and-hope-it-works category, but again, details, whatever).

Of course, I might come up with something for 8 a.m. The element of surprise? Yeah, that's another thing that I've got. We'll just have to see, won't we?

The truth is, I've gotten through the hardest part (that 5-6:30 a.m. stretch) and now I'm wide awake again. I'm sort of hoping this goes away again before 9, because I am not going to be hip to having a bout of insomnia when this is over (even though insomnia and I are in love).

What else? I don't know. I think I've got some dancing around the living room to do now.

But seriously. Two dollars will bring it up to an even 70. You can do it! Someone! I have faith in you.

6:30 a.m.

Progress Report #11

Well, since 6 a.m., I have done the following:

-- Called Australia. (It's a long story, but I really hope I have the right number.)
-- Broken my pants. (Not as interesting as it sounds, really, I promise.)
-- Watched a video of myself lip-synching to Duran Duran's "Rio" (which I will post a link to if you pledge something -- and it's really that awfully not good enough to be awesome enough to deserve a pledge of a few bucks).
-- Listened to more Beck, and wondered what getting crazy with the Cheez Whiz actually entails, which is something that I've wondered, off and on, since 1994. Except one time I did get crazy with the Cheez Whiz, and again, it's not as interesting as it sounds, but it is, in a completely different way. Ah, processed cheesefood.
-- Did some clapping.
-- Reminded Caryn what Cafepress is for.
-- Watched the sun rise.
-- Considered the ways in which I am livin' la vida loca.
-- Giggled nonstop for about five minutes.

6:00 a.m.

near 6
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Went outside for a minute, and took my camera with me, out of habit. We don't do long exposures well, so this is incredibly blurry, but whatever, it's 6 a.m., and this is how I feel, looking at morning creep into the street where I live.

5:30 a.m.

Hmmm...

I don't know what I'm going to post, but I have exactly one minute until it is officially 5:30, so I guess we'll see.

Huh. I guess that was it.

5:00 a.m.

buh?
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: Observation

"Well, would you just look at that?"

"What?"

"That."

"What?"

"That."

"What?"

"The sign, stupid."

"What sign?"

"That one, right there."

"Oh. Well. Would you just look at that?"

"I thought segregation days was over."

4:30 a.m.

Breaking News From Jamelah.net

Listening: Jamelah's Super 90s Mix again, and the song of the moment is "Baby Got Back" (Sir Mix-A-Lot), and yes, this will be the second time in however many hours that I've listened to this gem of brilliance, what of it? L.A. face with an Oakland booty. Poetry. Right there.
Laughing about: Mostly anything, but especially this e-mail I just got that solves the problem of endangered species, and oh dear, I can't breathe.
Eating: Pringles. Of course.
Thinking: Okay, you know in the song "I Want it That Way" by the Backstreet Boys (and don't pretend that you don't know, because you totally do, so admit it -- it's liberating!) what is "it" and what way, exactly? Because he wants it that way, but then he never wants to hear me say "I want it that way" and I am confused. WHAT DO YOU WANT? Men. I swear.
Random thing I just said out loud: Oh. I get it. Nevermind.
Diet Coke #: Who's counting?
Cigarette #: I now have tar pits in my lungs, and I'm pretty sure a paleontologist could find the fossils of a velociraptor in there.

4:00 a.m.

daddy
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

daddy

Because I have officially hit the "I'm tired and insane!" portion of the evening, I thought I would try to tackle writing about my father. You know, logic? It rules my existence.

I'm not going to say anything serious about my dad, though, because I write serious things about him all the time, and it almost does the man a disservice. Do I ever mention the fact that he has a sly wit and (when he's not too busy being freaked out about my driving) a constant, slightly mischievous gleam in his eyes? Because he does. And I'm sorry this picture doesn't really capture that (among other things, like, say, the back of his head, for example).

The amazing thing about my relationship with my dad is that even though we don't see each other much, and when we do we don't talk a lot (which could almost be funny, since I have a tendency toward being a talker, and I've observed that when he can slip into his native language, he can be one too), whenever something funny happens -- something miniscule, slight, tiny enough for no one else to notice -- his gaze will find mine, and that sideways grin that we both have will creep slowly across our faces, mirroring each other, and we'll share a nod. The two of us, we get the joke. And in those moments, we understand each other completely.

3:30 a.m.

Progress Report #10: Now With Photos!

For those of you out there who has never had the pleasure of seeing me after I've been awake for nearly 24 hours (because I woke up at 5:30, lest anyone forget), I have photographic evidence that I am charming as hell. See here?


I really do smoke too much. I need to stop that.


But whatever. Did I mention that I'm a ninja?

3:00 a.m.

(This photograph was sent to me by Rob, who is one of my sponsors, and that whole sponsoring me thing? You should consider it, because then you won't have to feel those horrible pangs of guilt over the poor children who don't have books to read every time I mention it.)

(Not Actually a) Sketch: That Boy

Upon looking at this picture, I am immediately reminded of my very, very first love, a boy named Tyler, who sat next to me in my kindergarten class. (Yes, I loved him even before Karac (yeah, Karac) Brown, and the boy Scott, who was my very first kiss, again, yes, at the age of 5, because I guess I figured I might as well get it out of the way early, or something.)

Anyway, Tyler was a tough kid, and even in kindergarten, we all knew he was capable of kicking all of our asses. I don't remember any real details about our, um, relationship (I guess... I was 5. It wasn't a relationship.) but I do remember thinking he was the coolest boy on the entire planet and everything he said was fascinating and wonderful. It's funny, the things that can remind you... and once reminded, what the brain is capable of conjuring. But anyway, Tyler proved something about me -- that I fell in love a little too easily, which is something I still do, by the way, but don't tell anybody, because I have a reputation as a cynic to uphold.

And the boy in the picture? He doesn't look anything like him. Not really. Maybe it was just the fact that in the e-mail that this picture was attached to, it said that he would have no problem stealing a car from Gary Busey, and my guess is that Tyler, at least in his 5-year-old incarnation, wouldn't either.

2:30 a.m.

Progress Report #9

Okay, I have three minutes left before it's 2:30 and I'm just now starting this post. Sorry, but I had to find my lip balm. Because a girl can't be expected to keep her Blogathon in order when there is the impending doom of chapped lips looming in the distance. In any case, I am doing most awesomely, thank you very much. Guess all that caffeine is finally kicking in, because I am so ready to go, it's like I'm a whole new person. Or at least oooh oooh oooh-oooh ooooh, I've got a new attitude. I believe the kids call this a second wind, and we'll just see how long it lasts.

Okay. I really need to post this.

2:00 a.m.

My, my.

1. Okay, I just took a little trip to the bathroom to wash my face, because washing my face is something I like to do. Cleanliness being next to godliness, and all. It was tonight that I actually read the bottle for the very first time. Just so you know, I use a face wash called Purity Made Simple, by Philosophy (Edie Brickell says that philosophy is a walk on on slippery rocks, but I say that it is a manufacturer of cosmetics). I highly recommend this for anybody who has incredibly dry skin like yours truly, but anyway. The bottle. It says, and I quote:

philosophy: purity is natural. we come into this world with all the right instincts. we are innocent, and therefore perceive things as they should be, rather than how they are, our conscience is clear, our hands are clean, and the world at large is truly beautiful.

That's all very well and good, but what exactly does that have to do with my skin? I ask you.

2. I've just been on the receiving end of some rather entertaining e-mails which should inspire further bloggage (what a gross word. Bloggage.) in a little while, but for now, I have to say that my offer to marry someone who brings me ice cream is still valid, but I think I would also accept hash browns. Just so you know.

1:30 a.m.

Spamnation!

Lately, I've been saving some of the spam e-mails I get that have fascinatingly-named senders. Caryn and I were doing a series of interpretive drawings of these, for a reason that I have sinec forgotten, and here are a few examples of my fine, fine artwork:


How it all began...


Heh.






This is all... but I have several more in the queue, my current favorite of which is, naturally, Concessions K. Surrealists. Because if that's not begging to have a bad drawing made out of it, then I don't even know what begging to have a bad drawing is.

1:00 a.m.

But I am le tired*, or Progress Report #8

I've decided to throw off my schedule of writing a bit of fiction (or marginally interesting truth) on the hour for a little while, because I think I need to let it rest for a bit. I'm pretty happy with how that's been going, though -- I've gotten more creative writing done today than I have in the past year (no, seriously), and even have some stuff that I can probably polish up into real live stories someday. I'm saying this though my story-on-demand-for-sponsors offer still stands, in case you're interested.

So what have I been up to? Well, let's see. I've done some Pilates, I've done some dancing, I've watched the SNL cowbell sketch more than once and laughed like a maniac every single time (is it possible for that to stop being funny?), I've consumed more caffeine than I normally do in a six-week period, and actually, other than the fact that the edges are starting to get a little bit fuzzy and I can feel a little bit of incoherency coming at me, I'm actually feeling pretty good. Maybe it's because I'm listening to Eminem. Who can say?

Anyway, what's up? If you're there and reading (and my site stats say you are), you should say hi, or something. I'm late with this, so I'm going to post it now.








*I just really like saying that. A lot.

12:30 a.m.

I Don't Know What I'm Gonna Do Without My Boooo-ooooooo

Flickr is going down for scheduled maintenance for a couple of hours in a few minutes, and this bums me out, because where will I find inspiration for these sketches I have committed myself to writing? (When I don't cheat and write stories about how I won a table in a raffle at the bowling alley, that is.) I guess the only alternative is for you to sponsor me and use your sponsorship right to request a story on demand. (And hey, $10 will get you a story AND a chapbook AND my love and admiration and $15 will get you a story AND a chapbook AND another chapbook AND my undying love and admiration, plus, the undying love and admiration of economically-disadvantaged children in Sub-Saharan Africa who just want books to read, I'm sure.)

(While I'm being all parenthetical, and while you're being generous with your pledging, you should also sponsor Caryn, because she is also blogging for a fine, fine book-related charity, and there's also something about a chapbook for a $10 pledge, so you know... mmmmhmmm.)

In other news, because Caryn has been featuring her answers to the timeless questions posed in pop music, the latest in the neverending series of Things I Actually Said to Caryn:

"Too bad 'we want a lady on the street and a freak in the bed' isn't a musical question."

And really... it is too bad. Too bad indeed.

MIDNIGHT

partied out traffic cones
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

From the True Story Files: Mardi Gras Night at the Bowling Alley

This happened a couple of years ago, and I'm sort of surprised I remember it at all, all things considered, but it's one of my favorite memories. Oddly enough, I didn't even want to go. And then I would've missed out on all the fun.

So. Earlier in the week, I was having lunch with my friend Stacy and as we were coming back, she saw a traffic cone on the freeway exit ramp. She threw her car into reverse and went running after it. I never knew she liked to steal traffic cones, and I don't think she knew it either, before that moment, but anyway, there it was -- new adventures in petty theft. The Saturday afterwards, she came to pick me up so we could go to Mardi Gras Night at the local bowling alley. Like I said, I didn't actually want to go, because bowling and I don't get along all that well (or at all, really -- the germs and everything), but I decided to go anyway. As we stood in my driveway, I happened to mention that my neighbors had a traffic cone in their driveway, for reasons that were beyond my understanding. And that was it -- another traffic cone for the collection.

We got to the bowling alley, and since I won't have anything to do with rented shoes, I decided to sit out the actualy bowling part for sitting around and drinking margaritas. There was something about a raffle or something, and after a few drinks, I thought, hey! What the hell? Raffles are good! So I bought a ticket. I also bought a feathered Mardi Gras mask, because, hey! What the hell? Feathered Mardi Gras masks are good!

After several more drinks, I found myself standing outside of the bowling alley, singing "Sixteen Tons" in a borrowed cell phone (my battery had died) to Caryn, because I told her I would totally drunk-dial her, and she told me I had to sing. A legend was born in that moment, a legend that defies explanation, but a legend all the same.

Went back inside. I think I ate some mini tacos, but maybe I'm just making that up, and who's gonna know? Not me, that's for sure. They were announcing the latest round of raffle winners, and I pulled my ticket out of my pocket. What the hell? I WON! I went over to the bar to retrieve my prize, only to be handed a large, awkward box. When I returned to my friends, they asked what I'd gotten, and I said, "Uh, I don't know." We looked closely at the box -- it was a table. I WON A TABLE IN A RAFFLE AT MARDI GRAS NIGHT AT THE BOWLING ALLEY!!! Does it get better than that? I don't think so.

After a little more sitting around and drinking while guarding my table-prize and watching other people bowl, it was time to go home. I sat in the backseat of the car while I waited for Stacy, and while doing so, I put my Mardi Gras mask on one of the traffic cones and had a conversation with it. I think I named the cone Betsy. It wouldn't surprise me, because I seem to name all sorts of things Betsy when I've had a little to drink, including (but not limited to) the large yellow fish in the huge aquarium at this restaurant that's too expensive for me, even though I've managed to have dinner there twice. Or once. One time I just went there for drinks. Because it was my birthday and I was barhopping and this was before we found the place that was having $1.50 martini night.

But I digress.

So, after sitting in the car, talking to Betsy the Cone, I got home. And then I went to bed. But not before sending a drunk email to everyone I knew at the time about how I WON A TABLE IN A RAFFLE AT MARDI GRAS NIGHT AT THE BOWLING ALLEY!!! Because really, when things like that happen, they need to be gloated over. Even if it has to be in a clumsy, typo-filled way.

The end.

11:30 p.m.

Well.

I think after my last post, I'm officially tapped out, because, hey, I was an only child, so I don't even know where that came from. I'm gonna have to do some serious dancing around my living room like an idiot for awhile to get my creativity back. Fortunately, I have all sorts of music that is conducive to idiotic dancing, because the dancing of the idiotic variety, it is the only kind I do.

If the people across the street are looking out of their front window, I'm sure they'll be entertained.

11:00 p.m.

time to go barefoot!
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: How Jimmy Lost His Shoes

"What are you doing?"

"Just let me see 'em for a minute."

"No."

"Come on."

"No. Stop it."

"Give them to me."

"No. STOP! They're mine!"

"Just let me see them."

"See? There."

"Ha....ha. Stop being such a pussy."

"I'm telling Mom."

"You better not."

"What'll you do?"

"You don't even want to know what I'll do."

"You ain't doin' nothin'. You're the pussy."

"Ha! You said it! You can't tell Mom!"

"Yes I can."

"You better not."

"Shut up."

"Don't tell me to shut up."

"Shut uuuuuuuuuuuuuuup. Shut up shut up shut up you stink shut up stinky stinky stinky brotherrrrrrrrr."

"Shut up."

"You shut up. Stinky."

"You're stupid."

"So? You stink."

"Do not."

"Do toooooooooooooooo."

"Shut up."

"You first. Stinky."

"I hate you."

"Hate you more!"

"Gimme 'em."

"No."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because. Geez. Why you gotta be so stupid all the time?"

"I ain't stupid."

"Yuh huh."

"Whatever. Hey!"

"Got your shoes! Ha ha!"

"Give 'em back!"

"No."

"Come on. Give 'em to me. Pleeeaaase?"

"Nuh uh."

"Whatever. You still stink."

"Your shoes stink."

"Well why you want 'em so much?"

"Cuz Mom said not to walk barefoot and you're gonna be in tro-uh-uh-uh-ble."

"Give 'em to me!"

"Nope."

"Please?"

"No."

"Hey! Come back! I can't run! There's glass!"

"Ha ha. Slowpoke!"

"Ouch! Come onnnnnn. Wait for me."

"Fine."

"Gimme my shoes!"

"Nope. Can't catch 'em!"

"Stop! What're you doing?"

"Ha ha can't catch 'em slowpoooooooke."

"I hate you."

"What?"

"I hate you."

"I didn't hear you."

"I HATE YOU!!!"

"I got your shoes!"

"Please? Come on. It ain't funny."

"Yes it is."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is NOT!"

"Ha!"

"Stupid! Look what you did!"

"Oops."

"How'm I s'posed to get 'em down? STUPID! I'm gonna get in trouble and it's your fault and I'm tellin' Mom you called me a pussy. And YOU STINK!"

"I'm sorry. Hey. I'm real sorry. Come on. Don't tell Mom."

"She's gonna find out anyway because I don't have no shoes because you're stupid and you're gonna get grounded for being mean to me just wait."

"Come on, please? Please? I won't tell her about the lamp."

"Yes you will because you're mean and I hate you."

"I won't, I swear. Please? I don't wanna get grounded, come on."

"Fine, we're gonna be late anyway and she's gonna be mad."

"Okay, but you won't tell her?"

"Maybe."

"Please? I'll give you a dollar."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Pinky swear me."

"Fine. Pinky swear. Come on, we better get home."

"Okay, but walk slow. I think there's glass."

10:30 p.m.

Progress Report #7

Okay, this post kind of caught me by surprise... I just looked at the clock and realized that I'd just been sitting here, staring into space for thirty minutes. Well, staring into space and listening to stuff like "Fire, Water, Burn" (Bloodhound Gang) for thirty minutes, but staring into space all the same. One time, during my senior year of high school, my friend Susan and I made up a skit about this song, and it involved a worm being on fire (but not a real worm, because worms are gross) and it wasn't funny to anybody but us, which is how it worked with most of the things that we found utterly hilarious.

In any case... come on, party people.

10:00 p.m.*

drive
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

(I seem to have forgotten how to type. Oh, the backspace key. I never knew how awesome you were until now.)



Sketch: Drive

I am alone in the car. I'm playing the radio as loud as I want to, which is loud enough to make my ears hurt just slightly, and even though I could turn it down enough to make the ache go away, I don't want to. I'm singing along with the song that's making my ears hurt, except I can't sing, so it's really more like yelling. But there's no one to hear me, so I don't care.

There is nothing I love more than moments like these, moments that are entirely mine and mine alone, moments when the road stretches out before me like a promise. A promise of what, I don't know exactly, but maybe it's a promise of as many of these moments of mine that I can fit into the space it takes to burn a tank of gas, or maybe it's a promise of returning to some place long enough ago and far enough away, a place where we are strangers, where you don't know my name, or maybe... maybe --

Like I said, I don't know what the promise is, but I don't need to know. It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter because yes, I will come home tonight and I will wash the dishes and I will lie in bed next to you and listen to you snore and I won't tell you any of this, about how I disappear for hours, about how I go away just to remember, or to forget, or to chase the horizon like the fool I used to be, like the fool I still am in these moments when I am alone in the car and I can listen to what I want to as loud as I want to and you can't stop me with those words of yours, those looks of yours that stop me from doing everything else.

Because right now, I am far enough away for it to matter, and I don't feel you and I don't love you and I don't have to pretend, and I can just imagine, just barely imagine, the way the sky looks in a world where we're not happening.



*Not bad for something I started at 9:58, if I do say so myself.

9:30 p.m.

Not to be repetitive, or anything, but...

1. I just said to Caryn, "I'm not marrying anybody who won't steal Gary Busey's car and take me to Graceland." So now I have to add that to my impossibly long list of criteria for my hypothetical future mate. Sigh. So many things to keep track of.

2. I just cackled. A few moments earlier, I snorted. Proof, ladies and gentlemen, that I laugh like a nerd. I do lots of other things like a nerd, too. Like, um, most everything that I do.

3. Seriously now, boys and girls -- you should give me a dollar. But not me. Book Aid. Because, as the banner right at the top of this very page says, books are neat. And everybody should have access to them, no matter where they live or how much money they have. So, share the love! </shamelessness>

9:00 p.m.

w00t! 12 hours! Verily, I say unto you, I am rocking the proverbial casbah.

And now, down to bid'ness.

Ahem.


Sketch: The Great French Fry Caper

"Grandpa?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me a story."

"Well, okay. Did I ever tell you the one about the time your grandmother and I stole Gary Busey's car to go to Graceland?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, when we were younger, Grandma and I used to be crazy."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"Like how?"

"Well, like we stole Gary Busey's car."

"Who's Gary Busey, Grandpa?"

"A movie star."

"I never heard of him."

"It happens. Anyway, one morning, your grandma looked at me and said 'Let's go to Graceland.' I thought it was a good idea, being a big Elvis fan and all, so we got dressed and went looking for a car."

"You didn't have a car?"

"Well, we did, but Graceland was very far, and ours wasn't the most reliable."

"Oh."

"So, we talked about it while we had lunch at Burger King, and as we were walking outside, we saw a man get out of his car and go storming into the restaurant. He left his car running, and we thought -- well, now or never, right?"

"Uh, I guess."

"So we hopped in the car and headed toward Memphis."

"Where's Memphis?"

"In Tennessee."

"Where's Tennessee?"

"It's in the South."

"Oh."

"So we got down the road a ways, and your grandma said that she smelled food. We hadn't noticed it before, but there was a great big bag of food from Burger King right there on the seat."

"Was it Gary Busey's food?"

"Yes. It was Gary Busey's food. A double Whopper and some fries. King-sized too, if I recall."

"That's a lot, Grandpa."

"I know. That's probably why he ended up on Celebrity Fit Club 2."

"What's Celebrity Fit Club 2?"

"Something you're very lucky never to have to watch."

"Oh. Did you get to Graceland?"

"Well, no."

"How come?"

"Because Gary Busey got mad about his car -- even more mad about his french fries -- and your grandma and I had to spend some time in jail. Your dad bailed us out with his lawnmowing money, in fact."

"He did?"

"Sure did. Great kid, your dad."

"Wow."

"So anyway, son, the important thing to remember is not to steal cars from celebrities, even ones on the C-list."

"What's the C-list?"

"It's when somebody's famous, but not really famous."

"Oh. Grandpa?"

"Yeah?"

"Daddy says that it's wrong to steal anything from anybody."

"Well, he's right. But if you ever do end up stealing anything, just make sure not to get caught, okay?"

"Okay, Grandpa."

"And don't tell your father I said that."

"Alright."

"Good. Now. You want me to teach you how to cheat at poker?"

"Okay."

"Okay. Go get Grandpa his cards."







As demanded by Caryn and Anne. Because I am all about killing two birds with one stone. And seriously... don't you want me to write you one?

8:30 p.m.

It wouldn't be me blogging if I didn't include a brief snippet from the continual "Things I Actually Say to Caryn" series

Jamelah (8:08:52 PM): i'm so ridiculously tired right now
Caryn (8:15:12 PM): of course i think this wouldn't quite as hard if i was in the habit of writing poetry or anything on a regular basis
Jamelah (8:15:53 PM): true
Caryn (8:16:30 PM): why must i always be punished for my laziness??
Jamelah (8:17:12 PM): i don't know but it's just not fair, yo
Caryn (8:17:19 PM): at somepoint tonight i'm sure i'll just be like "yeah it's 4am" (post)
Jamelah (8:17:22 PM): i'm totally starting to spazz
Caryn (8:17:28 PM): well entertain me
Jamelah (8:17:28 PM): and it's only 8:17!
Jamelah (8:18:09 PM): i mean, i'm listening to "hot in herre" and it's not even phasing me
Caryn (8:18:40 PM): hahah i need to pep up my music
Caryn (8:18:49 PM): and i want you to write a sketch involving gary busey
Caryn (8:18:58 PM): you can combine that with the french fries if you'd like
Jamelah (8:19:04 PM): is this your demand for sponsoring me?
Caryn (8:20:42 PM): yes
Caryn (8:20:52 PM): among other things
Caryn (8:20:53 PM): heh
Caryn (8:20:55 PM): whatever that means

...

Jamelah (8:24:20 PM): i kind of just want to post our conversation
Caryn (8:24:31 PM): go for it
Jamelah (8:24:44 PM): it almost makes me wish we'd planned out our reality show today....
Caryn (8:27:31 PM): hahahah well
Caryn (8:27:33 PM): call diddy

8:00 p.m.

Il Duomo, Milan (again)
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

True Story: The Worst Trip to Milan Ever

We started the day by taking a trip to Verona, and stealing lots of breadsticks from the restaurant where we had lunch so that we'd have food to eat later on. After seeing La Casa di Guilietta (Juliet's house), a great big ol' statue of Dante Alighieri, and lots of Roman ruins, we ran to catch a train to Milan (and we literally had to run).

Several hours later, we were in Milan, and not really sure where we were going. Having been in fair Italy for all of a week (maybe two), our Italian wasn't that great, so when we asked a man who didn't speak English for directions to the hostel we planned to stay in, it was inevitable that we'd get completely lost.

We did. Lost, miserable, hungry, and, spoiled by Venice's lack of cars, we had a couple of near-misses with oncoming traffic, because we'd already forgotten how to cross the street. After finally getting directions, we found the hostel, only to almost be refused service because a couple of people had left their passports back in their apartment in Venice. Fortunately, one of our friends, Melissa, doesn't know how to take no for an answer, and she talked our way into a room.

Three bunk beds. Really loud springs that filled the entire room with noise anytime anyone dared to do anything more than take a shallow breath. Sleep was impossible for hours, but finally, tiredness won.

Left in the morning, tired and still kind of hungry (the place did provide tea and rolls -- you know, continental). Decided we wanted to see two things -- the cathedral (pictured here) and Da Vinci's Last Supper. Found out, when we got to the church where the Last Supper is housed that you have to get on a waiting list. But charming the doorman wasn't that hard, so we managed to get on the list for 1:00.

Wandered the city, saw the cathedral, got hot and tired and argumentative, Melissa bought some Versace sunglasses, we saw The Last Supper (definitely worthwhile), and then, after getting into some kind of bitchfest argument outside of Benetton, we went to the train station to go home.

Couldn't find a seat on the train to save our lives. Ended up sitting in the dining car. Got home and bought a pizza and ate it, ripping it apart with our bare hands because we were seriously hungry, and there's no point standing on ceremony. I got the bright idea that I knew a better way home than everybody else, and for some dumb reason, they all followed me. Venice is the easiest city in the world to get lost in before you learn the tricks of following the signs to major landmarks and navigating your way from there. Everybody got mad at me. The girls who lived in the apartment behind l'Accademia museum got home, and Emily (yes, my wife Emily) and I started our sojourn back to our apartment on Via Garibaldi.

It was late. It was pouring rain. The vaporetto stopped running one stop before it got to ours. Said "fuck it" and started walking home in the downpour. We'd bought this huge, cheap bottle of wine that tasted what I imagine gasoline must taste like, and we passed it back and forth as we trudged to our apartment.

When we finally got home, we were wet, tired, and rather miserable, but after changing into dry clothes and finishing off the bottle of wine, we were sure we'd had a really, really good weekend.

7:30 p.m.

A few things, before I get back to my regular schedule of sketching/randomness

1. Couldn't somebody bring me some ice cream? I would totally marry somebody who brought me some ice cream right now. (Provided, of course, that this person was of the opposite gender, because we in America are a little uptight about it going the other way, even though I already have a wife named Emily, whom I haven't seen for several years, but we still refer to each other as "wifey" because we took our vows very seriously. Hah. It's a long story, and probably not as interesting as you may think it is.)

2. My butt is numb. I'm sure you don't care, but it's true, regardless.

3. Okay, to alleviate the butt numbness, I'm standing and typing now. And the song "This Is How We Do It" (Montell Jordan) is playing on my iPod. Yeah, I'm kind of embarrassed that I own this, but for the record, I bought it for Jamelah's Super 90s Mix, and let me tell you... this song was the jam the summer after 10th grade, and I had a friend who played it on repeat for an hour at this party I went to. This was the same party where I ended up laying down on the stairs and everybody thought I was drunk, but they were oh! so! wrong! Anyway, my point, Dear Reader, is that I AM DANCING AND BLOGGING! All hail multitasking.

Hasta las ocho.

7:00 p.m.

Interlude: Photojournalism

Okay, I know I just posted a progress report, but other than that time when I posted that picture of myself that shouldn't have ever been taken in the first place, I haven't included photos. So, here... live from the front, I present to you:

ME.


Hilarity abounds at the Blogathon, even though, in this, it kind of looks like I just sneezed.


Shock and awe, baby. Shock and awe.


Didn't I ever tell you that sometimes I look just like Constantine Maroulis? (Much to my chagrin, of course.)


And yes, just for the record, I'm crazy, yo.

6:30 p.m.

Progress Report #6

As George Michael often sang, I gotta have faith-ah-faith-ah-faith-ahhh.

Anyway, I just spent the last couple of minutes having a really intense fantasy. Want to hear it? Of course you do.

In my fantasy, I am in bed, and my eyes are closed as I breathe. Deeply. In and out. Satisfied. Yes, in this fantasy moment, I am sleeping peacefully.

Always helps to keep your eyes on the prize, you understand.

6:00 p.m.

fireflies in a jar
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: Remember?

"Hey."

"Huh?"

"Remember that time we went on that road trip, and you stopped the car and we got out and all we could see was the sky forever?"

"Yeah... and?"

"Remember the fireflies? How there were so many of them? Like --"

"Yeah."

"Like fairies."

"Like fireflies?"

"You're too literal."

"I remember, anyway."

"We should do that again sometime."

"Why?"

"Because it was nice. We don't do anything nice anymore."

"What do you want to do, then?"

"I just said."

"We already did that."

"I know. Nevermind. I just thought. Yeah, nevermind."

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"I know what it means when you say things are fine."

"It means that things are fine. They're fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Are you going to sulk now?"

"Do I look like I'm sulking?"

"There's no way I can possibly answer that question."

"Do you want to go get some dinner, or something?"

"Sure, if you want."

"I asked if you wanted to, not if I wanted to."

"Oh good lord. Yes. I want to go get some dinner and then I want to take the long way home so we can stop and look at some fucking fireflies, okay? Doesn't that sound fun?"

"You know, sometimes you're a real bastard."

"Well, if I didn't know, I'm lucky to have you to remind me."

"Whatever. Let's go."

"Fine. Yeah. After you."

5:30 p.m.

Progress Report #5

Well, I have been awake for 12 hours now, but I've only been writing for 8.5. Oy. This is getting progressively more challenging, and I have Britney's "Toxic" stuck in my head. But that's okay, because I will publically admit to actually liking that song (it's really great for those moments when you're all alone in your car and you don't care who sees you dancing and driving -- this is a challenge in traffic, but it can be done, friends). I got really tired about an hour ago, but now I feel strangely energetic, which is good, because I think I'm going to have to do a few minutes of Pilates to get my back to stop hating me for sitting in this chair all day.

5:00 p.m.

Sketch: Toxic

In the split-second that exists right before a kiss between strangers, it's possible to think and dismiss a thousand thoughts. How is this happening? Is it going to be worth my time? I finally get to see if that kiss-proof lipstick lives up to its claim. I wish I had worn different shoes. Among other things. Each thought possible, but none of them probable -- a split-second isn't a very long time, after all.

No, in the split-second that exists right before a kiss between strangers, it's likely that all thoughts are centered on the stranger. And in this particular case, I can't help but think that he's exactly the type of man I shouldn't be kissing. I know better, after all. My mother taught me well. Yet I can't help the fact that I'm glad that he's all wrong for me. I always say I don't know how I get myself into these situations, but I do it on purpose. Any girl who says she doesn't love a tangle with a bad boy is lying, and you can rely on that even more than kiss-proof lipstick.

Yes, there's a thrill to knowing that there's not going to be a morning after, or even any conversation -- just a moment, a meeting. Two ships passing in the night, as they say. And that thrill is as simple as it is complex.

In the split-second that exists right after a kiss between strangers, it's possible to think a thousand things, all of them centered around how good it would be to have this happen again, and these thoughts are not as easy to dismiss. But they must be. Because a moment is just that, and anything more than a taste destroys the flavor.






Whew! Okay. Heavily inspired by the Britney song that is its namesake. For waterhot, my patron.

This totally reminds me that the patronage system really was quite fantastic, so you should pledge money now, while operators are standing by.

4:30 p.m.

Things That Would Make This Whole Blogathon Thing Pimped-Out Awesome

1. A masseuse. (My neck hurts.)
2. An intern to give me ideas and bring me coffee. I would like this intern to be P. Diddy.
3. Barring an actual intern, a cabana boy named Raoul or Sergio would also suffice.
4. Not having cramps. (Sorry, I was going to have to mention it at some point.)
5. Pringles! Wait. I already have those.
6. A posse.

That's all I can think of right now. My needs are simple, really.



In case anybody's keeping track, the song of the moment is "Connection" by Elastica. Cheers.

4:00 p.m.

picked
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: Picked

Perhaps she always wanted to be the type of girl who could get away with wearing a flower in her hair without looking ridiculous, or maybe she just wanted something beautiful to hold. Whatever the case, she is waiting, silently, on back steps made of deteriorating cement, idly twirling the stem of a pink bloom between her thumb and forefinger. It's the type of thing a girl might do when she's in love, pretending to be patient as she waits for the one who makes her heart beat faster. The one who makes her words get lost in her mouth when she looks in his eyes.

But she is not in love, and she is not waiting for anybody. No one in particular, at least, but, most likely, no one at all. It looks easy -- sitting and twirling a blossom -- but she knows how difficult it is to wait for nothing, to have no expectation coming her way as the summer afternoon stretches relentlessly across her silence, and the only promise the coming evening brings is that of petals falling quietly from the picked flower standing alone in a glass of water next to her kitchen sink.

3:30 p.m.

Random Observations After 6.5 Hours of Nonstop Blogging

1. Sometimes you just need to listen to Jamelah's Super 90s Mix, which you could do if you were me. Or if you stole my iPod. Or if you were Caryn, who got the lovely 2-disc set in the mail because I love sending stuff to Caryn in the mail.

2. Speaking of Jamelah's Super 90s Mix, the song "Baby Got Back" never ever stops being completely and incessantly awesome. (Yes, incessantly.)

3. Have you seen that Target commercial with the changed lyrics to "Baby Got Back"? Isn't that the most wrong thing ever? And, when you watch it and think about how wrong it is, do you also wonder how come nobody thought of it before? Seriously.

4. Maybe I should've cleaned off my desk before I did this.

5. I had this notion about sorting all my laundry last night so that I could run downstairs and throw loads in the washer or dryer (depending on their laundry appliance needs at the time) in between blog posts, but then I realized that by even thinking about doing laundry while I was also engaged in relentless posting, I was being completely delusional.

6. After I finish this post, I'm totally going to get up and dance around my living room while listening to Britney Spears, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me.

7. #6 on this list just made me unable to stop laughing. And I don't actually think it's that funny. It's a little too early to get slaphappy, but whatever. Bring it on!

8. It is now 3:31 p.m., so I'd better stop writing this list now.

3:00 p.m.

at the window
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: At the Window

Mrs. Williams is pulling weeds in her garden, but she ought to know better than to wear those shorts if she's going to be bending over like that. Mr. Williams left her, and that's probably why. Some women have no shame. My daughter says not to pay her any attention if it bothers me so much, but it's hard to miss that big behind up in the air every time I look out of the window. Mr. Williams still comes over to do things like mow the lawn and clean out the eavestroughs, although I don't know why he bothers. If any of my boys were married to a woman like Mrs. Williams, I'd be happy when he left her forever and didn't look back, but it ain't none of my business and nobody asks me nohow.

There's a woman who walks by every day carrying a plastic bag. I always wonder what she's carrying, if it's the same thing or different things each time she goes by. Maybe it's the same bag full of stuff. Maybe it's something she's afraid'll get stolen if she doesn't carry it with her all the time, or maybe she picks up garbage off the street, but I don't ever see her picking nothing up, just walking by real slow like her body aches her, carrying that bag. She wears sunglasses every day, I ain't never seen her without them, now that I think about it, and I don't know why she does that, because she's always walking by at dark. But I bet she's got trouble with her eyes. Because them's the kinda glasses people wear when they got trouble with their eyes.

She's pretty old, but not as old as me. I don't know nobody as old as me, and that's the trouble with being this age. My kids all tell me I'm lucky, but they don't know nothin' about it. Let them live to be this old, and then see how lucky they feel. 'Specially if they don't got nothin' much other to do than look out the window, and the only view they get is of Mrs. Williams in her shorts with her big white legs out there for anybody to see, like it's anything anybody'd wanna see anyway, and that's probably why Mr. Williams left her in the first place.

But it ain't none of my business and I don't care much anyhow.









Note: Yes, that's my grandmother in the picture, and yes, she does stare out of her kitchen window a lot, but the character in this story is not actually my grandmother. For the record.

2:41 p.m.

Interlude

It's a beautiful day in the bloggerhood... won't you be my sponsor?

2:30 p.m.

blogathon 05
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Progress Report #4

I'm not actually as tired as I look, I don't think (except that waking up at 5:30 a.m. business is not helping things), but in any case, here: me & my keyboard -- it's love.

2:00 p.m.

Sketch: Seventeen

There might be a million stars in the sky, but I can't concentrate on counting them, because I am laying side-by-side in the grass with the boy I used to think I'd marry someday with my fingers laced through his, and I'm much too busy memorizing the steady rhythm of his breath to care about anything like heaven. There are voices, loud, party voices coming at us from all angles, but we've always been good at finding our own silence. I'm pretty sure my breath smells like beer, and I know his does, but it's okay because my mom will be asleep when I finally make my way home. I'm starting college in a month. He is too, in another state, and even though we've promised to se each other at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and even though he tells me I'm crazy when I tell him I'm not sure anymore, this all feels like the last twenty minutes of really long movie -- the part after the script already gave a perfect ending, the part that pulls the story out and makes it much larger than it ever should've been, but lets you know, with each passing moment, that sometimes it's okay to keep things longer than you should.

1:30 p.m.

elixir of the gods
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Really.

I think it's time for me to take a moment to thank the makers of Diet Coke for this most wondrous beverage, which will most assuredly be at least partly responsible for getting me through the day.

Oh, Diet Coke, how I love you.

I also love Beck, which I thought I'd mention because I'm listening to him right now.

1:00 p.m.

Sketch: Companionable*

After an hour of riding along in absentminded silence, absorbing little more than the scenery as it rolled past outside the car window, she bursts out with "Wait! Don't change it! The guy said he was playing Neil Diamond next."

He makes a face, but he places his radio-changing hand back on the steering wheel.

"I know, I know. But hey... this is absolutely why I love you."






*Sorry, this is what happens when I get distracted by Flickr and then realize I only have a couple of minutes.

12:30 p.m.

Progress Report #3

I kinda forgot that I was supposed to update this at 12:30, so I've been doing other stuff instead. Whoops. So far, I'm still doing fine... any excuse to sit around in my pajamas all day, I suppose. A little later on, I think I'm going to try to call unsuspecting people who live in foreign countries and weren't smart enough to keep their phone numbers secret. Well, just one unsuspecting person. And if I manage to get in touch with him, I'm sure there will be hilarity to follow.

If woodchucks don't chuck wood, what do they do?

NOON

Sketch: Coffee

A cup of coffee: cream, no sugar. That's the way he always says it. I can even hear the punctuation in his voice, which is different from the way I talk, because I often don't pause longe nough to even have commas, let alone colons. Sometimes. Sometimes I practice slowing down for more than breathing, really pausing between words and letting them hang in the air a little bit as though they were coming out of my mouth in a cartoon bubble and whoever I was talking to had to read them before they could reply.

The problem with talking too much, like I do, I know I do, but I can't help it... the words, they're in my brain too many at a time and I'm afraid that if I don't get them all out at once I'll get a headache and I don't like it when things hurt, but the problem, like I started saying, is that nobody listens. How could anybody listen to all the things I say when there are too many? Just one word after another piling up outside of myself like a pile of unsorted laundry that might be either clean or dirty, but who has time to pick through it all? I don't even have time, I just talk, talk, talk, and maybe someone will be listening when I say something important. If I do. I don't know if I ever say anything important.

I think important thoughts have to grow, to sit and brood, fester a little bit maybe, before they can become important. Like cheese. At least, I think this is the way cheese works. I don't know. I don't think I want to know, if festering is what cheese does, because I like cheese a lotand "fester" is a gross word.

And anyway, he comes in everyday and orders a cup of coffee: (wait for it) cream, no sugar. It's beautiful, the way he orders it and I don't think he even notices. He's probably so used to saying things with so much important punctuation in them all the time that he can't be bothered thinking about the way he speaks his order for morning coffee. But maybe he does. Maybe he knows how smart he sounds. I want to ask him but I don't think he could be bothered with me, because after all, I just pour the coffee and then go about the rest of the things I have to do, chattering with other people, but never with him, because I don't think he'd listen.

But I don't mind. I like him anyway, even if he's too busy drinking his coffee (with cream, no sugar) to care about any of the dumb stuff I have to say. I like him better than anybody else who comes in here, actually, and maybe that's why. Because he doesn't notice me or try to grab my ass or order eggs and then pour ketchup all over them or anything like that. He just reads his paper and drinks his coffee and pays and leaves every day only to come back when tomorrow becomes today and that's all, really.

A cup of coffee: cream, no sugar. I think I'd drink it that way too, if I liked coffee, which I don't.

11:30 a.m.

Two thoughts:

1. Right now, I'm listening to the song "Blue Light" by Mazzy Star, and if you're the type of person who would do this sort of thing, I can't think of a single song that is better suited to slow dancing in your living room with someone you love (for some reason, I think I may have read that somewhere else before, and if I did, I agree with whoever I read it from wholeheartedly).

2. It's not even noon yet, and I'm already starting to spazz out a little bit. Caryn said to me earlier, "where are the people with the gatorade?" and I don't know, but they need to get on the ball, dammit.

11:00 a.m.

three wishes
Originally uploaded by jamelah.

Sketch: Wishing Lesson

"You want to learn a magic trick?"

"Yes."

"Go get some dandelions."

"Dandy lions?"

"Dandelions. The white flowers."

"They're not very pretty."

"They're the prettiest kind of flower there is. Get some, I'll show you."

"Okay. Here."

"No, you hold onto them."

"What's the magic trick?"

"You know how you blow out candles on a birthday cake?"

"Yes."

"It's like that."

"How?"

"First, you have to make a wish."

"What kinda wish?"

"Anything you want with your whole heart."

"Mama?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still love Daddy?"

"I love you, baby."

"Where is he?"

"Who, Daddy?"

"Yeah."

"He's gone... on... business."

"Is he coming back?"

"I don't know, baby."

"Are you going to go on business?"

"No. No, baby, I'm staying right here. Did you think of a wish yet?"

"Yes, I wish that we could --"

"Shh. It's a secret between you and the dandelion."

"Oh."

"Okay, are you ready?"

"I guess so. What'm I s'posed to do?"

"Wish really hard, with your whole heart and then blow on the dandelion hard. As hard as you can."

"Why?"

"Beause when you blow, all those white seeds come off and go away. And maybe, as they go, they'll tell your wish to someone who can make it come true."

"Is that why it's magic, Mama?"

"Yes, that's why. Ready? We'll go together. 1... 2... 3."

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because you make me happy."

"Oh. Can I do another one?"

"As many as you want, baby. As many as you want."

10:30 a.m.

Progress Report #2

Breakfast: Pancakes
Weather: Beautiful (why couldn't it be rainy and horrid so I wouldn't really really really want to go outside?)
Song: Molly's Chambers (Kings of Leon) -- You know, the one in the Volkswagen commercial with the people jumping up & down in their living room? Well, it makes me feel like jumping up & down in my living room, too... and I'm sure I'll get to that shortly.
Thinking: You know what would make this Blogathon experience totally awesome? More cowbell.
Random thing I just said to myself out loud: Ah, how fortuitous. (what exactly it is that's fortuitous at this particular moment, I'm not sure.)
Diet Coke #: 3
Cigarette #: I already lost count. My lungs are going to hurt later.

10:00 a.m.

Sketch: Insomnia

There's a curious way a cigarette burns in the dark. Or I say it's curious because I'm always looking for ways to entertain my mind in those early morning moments, the ones that could still count as late night if I had gone out and done something. If I weren't sitting in bed watching the burning embers come closer to my face with each passing breath.

My window is open, but I hear no cars, no voices yelling from sidewalks. It's the middle of the night after all, and people are sleeping, safe in bed, all is quiet, the way it should be, and I sit, thinking about the curious way a cigarette burns in the dark.

I am an insomniac living in a city that never wakes up.

I think about cigarettes and the way breeze ruffles my curtains and my sleeping neighbors because my brain is already tired of the alternative, the thoughts always waiting at the edges, prepared to take me over and make me remember want -- the thoughts of you. (Could this have gone in any other direction?) I have known you on careless sheets through nights when sleeplessness was a blessing, and it's always the times when I can't sleep that you come rushing back, taking me over in the quiet spaces between my own breaths, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Except to keep you hidden underneath thoughts of cigarettes and breeze. Which I do. With precision.

I've had a lot of practice.

The reason why the way cigarettes burn in the dark is curious is because the orange tip is like a dangerous ghost connected to nothing yet promising respite for my impatient lungs. Or at least that's what I think for now. For now. In the early morning that could've been late night, if only I'd go.

9:30 a.m.

Progress Report #1

Welly well well. Let's see. I woke up at around 5:30 this morning (I guess I was so excited that I was like a kid on Christmas or something), so I'm already a little sleepy. That's okay though, because really, sleep is overrated. It was quite a morning -- I had a feeling that my modem was going to be bitchy, and it was (!!!) so I had to spend some time plugging and unplugging things and praying, and I also couldn't find my red hooded sweatshirt, and I can't do no 24 hours of writing without my beloved red hooded sweatshirt, because, well, I love that shirt so much it is like a piece of me -- but all has been resolved and I am ready to go!

Anyway, I wouldn't be able to get through this experience if it weren't for music, and the music on my iPod is really a mishmash of all different kinds of stuff; I don't arrange my playlists in any sort of cohesive order (which is kind of odd, because I'm so anal about making mix CDs), and therefore, I end up listening to stuff like "Bukowski" (Modest Mouse) right after "Lean Back" (Terror Squad), all the time, and it can be a little jarring, but the unpredictability is what makes it entertaining. Jay-Z and Radiohead and Billie Holiday and Interpol all together like one big happy family -- this, my friend, is diversity.

Amen and pass the coffee.

9:00 a.m.

What's going on here, anyway?

Good morning, comrades. In case you're coming here from places other than the ol' jamelah.net start page, I thought I would use this first post to explain how things are going to be working here today. I am going to be blogging the day away like a blogging fool for a charity called Book Aid, which you can check out by clicking here. If you would like to sponsor me in this endeavor, I would really appreciate it (and I'm sure the folks at Book Aid would as well), and you can pledge a donation really easily by clicking on this link, registering with the site, and entering a dollar amount ($1 minimum). After I have successfully completed my 24 hours of blog, you'll be contacted early next week about how to send your donation directly to Book Aid. For the record, none of the money goes to me, though your pledges will, I'm sure, make me feel all warm and fuzzy, as though I were comfortably nestled in my bed instead of staring at my computer for 24 hours straight. And to those of you who have sponsored me so far -- Srah, Caryn, Anne, Rob and Sarah -- thank you, from the bottom of my soon-to-be-caffeine-drenched heart.

If you pledge anything between $1 and $5, I'll sketch/write something for you. For $10, I'll sketch something, plus send you a copy of one of my chapbooks, for $15, I'll write something, plus send you both of my chapbooks, and for anything beyond that, I don't know... I guess I'll throw something extra into the envelope (of a random, as-yet-undecided nature). This is retroactive, too, so for those of you who have already pledged -- comment an idea.

Anyway, my plan for the day is this: on the hour (starting at 10 a.m.), I will be posting a short prose sketch of a fictional sort -- these may be related to each other, or they may be all different, I don't know where the Muse will take me (I've just recently finished reading The Aeneid, so, like Virgil, I am all about invoking the Muse) -- and on the half hour, I'll post little updates about how I'm doing, what I'm listening to, how many cans of Diet Coke I've consumed, snippets of insanity shared between me and fellow Blogathoner Caryn, or whatever else. Should be fun.

So, if you're here and reading, don't be shy -- leave me some comments, yo. I can't explain how much it helps to know that people are there and actually feel like saying hello, and I'm not just talking to myself.

I guess that's all -- see you in 30 minutes.