Sleep is a wonderful thing, but I think I indulged too much this past weekend. Spent both Saturday and Sunday in bed with a book. I did manage to get to an early morning coffee with a friend on Saturday and then a dinner on Sunday.
Today, I feel like I’m in mud up to my chin. What happened to the light feeling of rafting on clouds? Life spun a change and I am feeling heavy. It’s not a bad heavy. I still breath deeply and freely. It’s just different to not have my naked toes tingle.
I am somewhere in the middle of my second book. I need to take the time to read the first pages to the middle because I have lost my footing. I’m not certain what’s happening with the narrative line, but then maybe in a memoir a person can get by without a narrative line. I send dust to the air and sneeze. My desk looks new again. I wander if the action of dusting and creating a clean space is equivalent to showering…do I get to start new after soap? I say yes because it is so good to feel like new again and not some lame robot with blood coursing through my body.
There is an armadillo at my window. He sees the two little dogs asleep on the couch below the window sill and shivers, his scales like the notes of a harmonica. I don’t know that the dogs will welcome him. They may see him as a threat for my attention; my attention for them as large as the moon. Should the armadillo come in, I will oil him first. It is dangerous saying first to anything. With first comes commitment, comes responsibility. I am ill prepared this morning as my eyes wish to do nothing but shut. I rode the elevator with the newspaper man. The newspaper man a clock registering early. Just seeing him makes me tired. What was I thinking that I could rise with birds, particularly the black crow. Sleep my beauty, sleep–my mantra after having met the armadillo. I slept and the armadillo was gone when I woke at noon, sunlight attaching itself to my blinds making them noisy. Coffee called from the kitchen. I stripped, exchanging my sleep shirt for sleeves the color of cactus.
It is odd for me to wear color. Only inside the house. Outside the house, it is always black. Black is the new thirty. I turned fifty last week.
I think to study the day that has yet to happen. My neck isn’t long enough to see around corners. I will make a raft out of tissue and count the seconds it takes to sink. I will peek around the corner and order in pizza. Guy and I got a fifty dollar gift certificate to Oregano’s for our birthdays. Guy’s birthday falls two days after mine. Our hands hook lovingly together forming a knot that is as ancient as the rocks outside our front door. There will be music without the rain. I lapse into shorts, my exposed legs the length of the breakfast table.
Thank you for your readership.
So, the six books I brought home on blogging, word press, and tweeter remain un-cracked. I want to be able to rest my hand on the cover and retrieve all the information there is to retrieve. Wouldn’t that be a great thing if we could just touch and know. If we could touch and know all there is to know about a person in one meeting, the excitement would be ruined. Getting to know a person slowly can be savored. Many meetings over coffee! Bummer to learn you don’t like the person; hopefully it is a mutual dislike so no one gets hurt and there are no nagging text messages. Must say though, it has been along time since i spent time with someone I dislike, or grew to dislike. Sweet. Below is another excerpt from Mind WIthout a Home.
In here are people prepared to help me let go of the agitation of tight pants, slip me into cotton, the cotton a dream state where for miles my mind can jog softly down the freeways of other worlds and not be hurt or standing in the world of 2 a.m. at the edge of a cliff wanting to jump, knowing I could fly if gravity would just stay still for a minute. Dream of sleep, then jump, always to float in the safety of the subconscious. It is waking that is the challenge. My body caught in the sensation of life, twisted this evening into a knotted string of twine.