Morning
I am not sure how to wake up.
I feel tired, so I stay in bed. I have rested too long, and I get fidgety. I feel like crying, but the tears do not come. Something is lodged in me and it and I can't move.
I can either cry or write or do neither and have a brain tumor. Yes, I believe I can get rid of my brain tumor. If it can be constructed, it can be destructed.
The thing about waking up is this. Prior to being awake, I have been elsewhere. In waking, I come back to here. Of course, I must. I must try to come back fully. I am not particularly good with transitions.
This precipitates the need for a morning routine. I may also need a mourning routine - some time to cry and let go before I enter into the day.
My body needs to come back. My legs are limp. My neck hurts from straining in sleep. I am undecided about hunger. I begin to inhabit myself.
I sit in the kitchen, look out at the park. It is quiet. There is a kid on the tennis court with an old volleyball, knocking it against the wall.
The corner of my eye catches something high and red, moving. I remember this guy who biked by on a ridiculous self-made concoction. This lunatic two-wheeled vehicle raised the rider up beyond a place where his feet could touch the ground. I think he was wearing a red hat - maybe a red nose like a circus clown. I surmised he had to tip over on purpose to get down. (How did he get up there in the first place?) When I turn my head to gaze directly at the red thing, I see the bristles of a broom tacked safely to the back of a workman's truck. This is a thing of daily life. It helps.
I do not like being parked. I like movement, though I find change difficult. I suppose most of us find change difficult, otherwise, the self-help section of Barnes and Noble would be much smaller. Essentially, any crisis constitutes change. We don't get triggered by things staying the same.
Something that does NOT trigger me is the pop and crackle of my non-stick pan. I burned it just now. Again. I was trying to boil soapy water in it to cleanse the oil from the night before. It does not smell good. Next to the stove, I see a ceramic bowl my daughter made, now broken. I don't care. Things are not precious; only people are precious. She won't care about the broken bowl because I taught her this idea and because she knows how to make another bowl. My boyfriend broke it during our forced and premature cohabitation. I believe he doesn't know he broke it; otherwise, he would have told me. He's such a boy sometimes. A bull in a china cabinet. I am not sure I can live with a boy. I am not sure I can live with anyone. M's Peruvian beans spice the house of garlic. I am used to my space, my smells, my tchotchkes placed so I can view and enjoy.
On the window sill, M placed a small clean glass bottle of hot sauce. Its logo is an Alpakita. This delights me, and I install a fake flower in it.
I feel tired, so I stay in bed. I have rested too long, and I get fidgety. I feel like crying, but the tears do not come. Something is lodged in me and it and I can't move.
I can either cry or write or do neither and have a brain tumor. Yes, I believe I can get rid of my brain tumor. If it can be constructed, it can be destructed.
The thing about waking up is this. Prior to being awake, I have been elsewhere. In waking, I come back to here. Of course, I must. I must try to come back fully. I am not particularly good with transitions.
This precipitates the need for a morning routine. I may also need a mourning routine - some time to cry and let go before I enter into the day.
My body needs to come back. My legs are limp. My neck hurts from straining in sleep. I am undecided about hunger. I begin to inhabit myself.
I sit in the kitchen, look out at the park. It is quiet. There is a kid on the tennis court with an old volleyball, knocking it against the wall.
The corner of my eye catches something high and red, moving. I remember this guy who biked by on a ridiculous self-made concoction. This lunatic two-wheeled vehicle raised the rider up beyond a place where his feet could touch the ground. I think he was wearing a red hat - maybe a red nose like a circus clown. I surmised he had to tip over on purpose to get down. (How did he get up there in the first place?) When I turn my head to gaze directly at the red thing, I see the bristles of a broom tacked safely to the back of a workman's truck. This is a thing of daily life. It helps.
I do not like being parked. I like movement, though I find change difficult. I suppose most of us find change difficult, otherwise, the self-help section of Barnes and Noble would be much smaller. Essentially, any crisis constitutes change. We don't get triggered by things staying the same.
Something that does NOT trigger me is the pop and crackle of my non-stick pan. I burned it just now. Again. I was trying to boil soapy water in it to cleanse the oil from the night before. It does not smell good. Next to the stove, I see a ceramic bowl my daughter made, now broken. I don't care. Things are not precious; only people are precious. She won't care about the broken bowl because I taught her this idea and because she knows how to make another bowl. My boyfriend broke it during our forced and premature cohabitation. I believe he doesn't know he broke it; otherwise, he would have told me. He's such a boy sometimes. A bull in a china cabinet. I am not sure I can live with a boy. I am not sure I can live with anyone. M's Peruvian beans spice the house of garlic. I am used to my space, my smells, my tchotchkes placed so I can view and enjoy.
On the window sill, M placed a small clean glass bottle of hot sauce. Its logo is an Alpakita. This delights me, and I install a fake flower in it.
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