Wednesday, October 21, 2009
October and a day off
A leftover peanut butter sandwich. That’s what I thought of when the day began. What do you do with it? The kids didn’t have to be to school until 11:00 and I had to get out of the house.
By the time the time rolled around, I’d forgotten how time can do this to me.
Days off of work seem to be filled with coffee. I don’t usually drink it, but it tastes so good with solitude and music of my choosing. I choose a vanilla latte. Not too sweet, of course. The Morphine album I just bought, Tom Waits, Count Basie, some k.d. lang, Fiona Apple and a little bit of Miles Davis.
I could get used to this.
I linger carefully over our conversation. I make imaginary schedules. I know there are things I need to get done. And I ignore them, too.
You are there sometimes, sprinkling a little cinnamon into what should be solitude. But it never really is. And your flavor is welcome.
By the time the time rolled around, I’d forgotten how time can do this to me.
Days off of work seem to be filled with coffee. I don’t usually drink it, but it tastes so good with solitude and music of my choosing. I choose a vanilla latte. Not too sweet, of course. The Morphine album I just bought, Tom Waits, Count Basie, some k.d. lang, Fiona Apple and a little bit of Miles Davis.
I could get used to this.
I linger carefully over our conversation. I make imaginary schedules. I know there are things I need to get done. And I ignore them, too.
You are there sometimes, sprinkling a little cinnamon into what should be solitude. But it never really is. And your flavor is welcome.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Another attempt at regular posting.
It happens on those days when you are in your oldest jeans and a way-too-clever t-shirt and an old flannel shirt you’re using like a cardigan. She steps in with her grey suit and long legs in stylish heels. And envy pours over that particular hour.
Don’t you want those days to start over?
My hair is in yesterday’s braids, fuzzy from wind and sleeping on them. My mood and my prose are being buffeted by every influence. The radio piece on the Cultural Revolution. That Daniel Handler novel I read for the third time. The humid cold. The little girl who just smiled at me. The fact that he didn’t come over to say hello. It all slides my I-finally-have-a-day-off exuberance into a soft melancholy that’s hard to overcome.
I collaborate with my schedule to contemplate the letters I won’t write before I decide that I need a platitude. An aphorism. Something that resembles advice.
And I order a large cup of coffee instead.
Maybe I should decide to think about loftier subjects. Or not.
Things tend to not happen, really, on days like today. Just rain. The smell of coffee. And the sound of background.
Every Monday should be like this.
I miss this blog.
Don’t you want those days to start over?
My hair is in yesterday’s braids, fuzzy from wind and sleeping on them. My mood and my prose are being buffeted by every influence. The radio piece on the Cultural Revolution. That Daniel Handler novel I read for the third time. The humid cold. The little girl who just smiled at me. The fact that he didn’t come over to say hello. It all slides my I-finally-have-a-day-off exuberance into a soft melancholy that’s hard to overcome.
I collaborate with my schedule to contemplate the letters I won’t write before I decide that I need a platitude. An aphorism. Something that resembles advice.
And I order a large cup of coffee instead.
Maybe I should decide to think about loftier subjects. Or not.
Things tend to not happen, really, on days like today. Just rain. The smell of coffee. And the sound of background.
Every Monday should be like this.
I miss this blog.
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