Sunday, October 17, 2010




                   Those morning moments before any signs of life in the house - before the pipes start washing with the flush of a toilet upstairs, before morning footsteps, when the only sounds are of distant engines groaning and birds asserting their hunger – those moments are a slip of clarity.

                  I try to stay in my bed each morning for as long as I can in order to prolong this air. It’s as if after every breath in my sleep, I exhale something vital and once I wake, am surrounded by a simplicity where all my aspirations and desires are ripe, and I can dwell without outside expectation. These morning moments are a Walden. When I wake alone, I am never alone. I am more whole than I have ever been.

                  And the morning light sits behind my curtains with its legs folded in a thick glow, like an excited child who is more polite than the rest but twice as persistent. If I keep my back turned to him, he will not bother me. But then those first few footsteps sound above.

                 They fall like rocks through the ceiling and pile reality all over the floor. Time space and obligation awaken. Every object that existed independently in the dim morning light is now a burden.  The room is a mess. Voices meander above me, laced with humanity’s sickness of the household, the hairdryer, the neighbor, the living and the leisure. Leisure - the american dream to have enough money to do nothing.

                   But there is no living in nothing, in funding a different perception every night so that our debris have more intention than we do.  Boxes cans and bottles keen at the front of a table, just next to the leg of a chair, or sunning on the window sill are characters, intent on their locations, because we have no recollection of how they got there the night prior.

                   My body temperature warms with some time awake, and the sheets begin to stick to my skin. Every sediment in my bed clings to me and I am struck with a sudden need to leave the room.

                   Once my feet hit the cold wooden floor, the air is sealed thick. My body is in motion, with a laziness in mind and movement - a clumsy human weight that speeds up time, slows production, and sedates.

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