No dreams of electric sheep. No dreams I can or want to recall. Fitfulness. Up at 2AM. Up at 5AM. Out of bed at 7. I meant to roll out of bed and slather on my cycling clothes for another go at Big Springs. Riding tired is asking for injury.
I'm tired of fighting. I'm beginning to doubt the existence of common ground, only the deceptive promise that if I'm standing and she's standing the floor beneath our feet must meet somewhere. I think I'm going about taking care of myself all wrong. It's supposed to be about me after all. I keep forgetting that me doesn't include her, and I have it on good word that she doesn't want to be included.
I like my apartment. I like my books, my furnishings, the decorative elements that denote my childlike wonder and eccentricity. I like the art on my walls, whether original or TJMax. I like that my son N— gave me canvasses and paint, and that I'm getting my mind back in its right place.
I like my cat, Phoebe, who is cuddly and clingy and a precious petite tabby furball. She is curled up in a patch of morning sunlight across from where I am working. She seems placid and content. At night she lays across my belly, curves into a C that slides off against my hip. She stays there until early morning, and then must leap onto the window sill above my bed and sniff at the pale light before rejoining me for another hour of rest. She lives up to her companion animal title with valor.
I like listening to music on my headphones and taking long walks. I like discovering small things. I like curves and angles and how they play against each other in the battle over points in space. I like sound, pitch and timbre, how they can be melded into shapes and angles with the tongue and throat to create aural symbols assigned to just about anything you can see, and many things you cannot.
I sometimes wonder which sense would be harder to lose—sight or sound. And I am glad I am not forced to make a choice.
Phoebe has drifted off to sleep. I am jealous. I need rest. I need purpose, direction, drive. They're buried beneath a layer of fatigue; I can feel them squirming under its weight.
I like my baby son, B—, who accidentally got a full view of my monte this morning as he bumbled past my room on the way to the toilet. He's almost 15, the tallest of my children, and a very sweet roommate.
I like these brief word purges, to remember that I still write. That I still exist, if only in simplicity, in the age of pandemic.