In September or October of 2013, I averred to my Chief that I couldn’t be counted on to work at the same company if I did not work in IT or for him.
It was a significantly political statement. I knew it, meant it. It was all somewhat topsy.
And then, the politics went pretty quiet. But it’s corporate, these things ebb and flow. In the midst of some such flows, I lost my project management crew mate. The last six months, projects have been largely me and the Chief.
Then last week it’s all gone pete tong. Suddenly, Tuesday afternoon the Chief was leaving; was gone.
I found I reported – not to anybody in IT – but to a person who I could not find less appealing in intellect or posture. Someone I could not have less respect for as a project manager (she had zero experience as such prior to coming aboard to manage the C.O.O’s PMO); a person who knew I was aware of how much she viscerally and actively despised the C.I.O. and those who reported to him.
A person who takes personally things that have never happened to her personally. Takes them very personally.
I’m ranting a bit. Fuck it. This is my blog. And right now, I report to no one.
Anyway. I digress.
In keeping with my fondness for naval themes, I’ll call her The S.S.PMO.
The S.S.PMO was painfully-obviously uncomfortable in the first meeting she took with me as her report. She wasn’t at all in charge. It was a fantastic act. She looked stoned; stunned-stupid.
She’s not stupid. She’s not that bright, either. She is a beaten dog. She can’t dare twitch her ears or the end of her tail without the express permission of her very-endeared C.O.O.
I did not fully understand this until the next morning. I received an eviscerating message from the S.S.PMO as I had not sought her approval for an email I sent to some department somebody relating something she had declared (declared!) was not a priority. Apparently, I mistakenly thought I could send an un-approved-of-email like some – FUCK THIS ALREADY.
As stated in my letter of resignation: I have more than a decade of experience in IT Project Management. I’m fully qualified to write and send email.
Really, I have no desire to professionally survive essentially the same scenario as my second marriage. I do not care to walk on eggshells. I do not want to second-guess everything I know.
I know a fair bit.
I know this: that C.O.O. and her Gaslight Crew can get fucked. That’s it. It’s terribly vulgar, and I mean it, too. It’s a really good mouthfeel phrase: “Get. Fucked.”
So, yes, you read that correctly: I resigned. Late Friday evening, I had sobbed and vomited enough in the previous 3 days to realize that I wasn’t OK and it wasn’t about how thick is my skin. This was not going to work out.
The body remembers, and mine was hell-bent on making it known. I didn’t care or need to wait around for it to be plainer. Nor for anybody else’s validation.
Understandably, this might seem something like blindly abiding my chief. It might seem like I left a stable (however moderately-paying) gig because of that loyalty.
The Chief will always have my respect, admiration, affection; I’m happy for this. But the politics be damned: I saved myself from the morass for myself.
My love is the Pax Oceana. My heart belongs to the City of Angels.
My loyalty is to the girl I sleep with every night. The lady with whom I wake up, the reason I make and eat good food and drink plenty of water. The best homemaker, to whom I’ve pledged to be the best sugardaddy.
As ferocious as it might be, such loyalty serves me first. It’s no good to anyone else otherwise.
When you slept over, you kicked out the tucked-in comforter, declaring it a nuisance.
When you slept over, you couldn’t sleep with the music. I got up and turned it off.
When you slept over, you got into left side of bed to sleep on your right side. So you could do big-spoon, you pushed me to face the wall.
I counted three hundred measures of your quiet, comforting snoring, then I unlocked your sleep-heavy arms and crept out. For a while I laid on a rug (on the floor, nearly under the bed), on my left side, with my feet curled in the hem of a blanket, my right shoulder covered.
When you slept over, I did small chores quietly, paced the backyard in the moonlight. I had a bath, probably, smoked seven or ten cigarettes, probably. I used headphones to keep the music from disturbing you.
When you slept over, you woke after curling your knees tight up to your chest and after you half-sneezed twice. You didn’t get out of bed, you didn’t get up. You accepted a cup of coffee, ten minutes fresh, made when you seemed close to waking. You had no idea it was the second pot, nor did you ask how long I’d been up. (Three hours.)
You marveled at actual breakfast! (bacon and eggs with avocado and tomatoes). I laughed: “I make breakfast every morning. I’m not doing this to impress, this is what I do.”
I rarely sleep more than five hours. And I sleep those all over my bed. I begin on my left side, with my head on the left side of the bed. Upon a particular pillow, my right arm and shoulder propped on a (different) particular pillow, my feet stretched to the right corner, tight into the tucked-in comforter that covers my right shoulder and my right ear, usually to some sort of ambient/electronic. I know these might soothe me into the very small sleep I get The faster I might fall asleep, the larger share of those hours.
I know how difficult is sleep; how desperately difficult comfort.
So if my duvet tucked in is noisome, or the only way slumber finds you is on your left side, or no music is the better lullaby: I can forfeit those for your ease, your rhythmic snore, your at-last-relaxed stretch, your mumbled explanation of a dream involving kites and marshmallows in Ancient Egypt.
But this is my bed. And this is my space, my studio and kitchen, my backyard and garage.
As comforts go, I know some of mine.
Please, take a little care because you insulted my duvet and bed-making. Take note that in my near-minimalism, I have few things but always music. Take a breath and ask me how (or if) I slept. Take a moment, realize that while I might invite you to share it, making breakfast for myself is an act of love and courage.
When you slept over, you left the memory of the ocean in the linens. The smell between your legs, behind your ears, and under your arms. The thicksalty aroma caught in the back of my mouth where my nose begins.
But long before you slept over I named myself for the ocean.
One day in Autumn of 1995, I heard a song on the car radio.
I sat in the car my first ex-husband’s parents had given us (in his name) upon our wedding; in a parking lot at Orange Coast College, facing Fairview Rd., (I think); late afternoon, I was early for a class in Russian history, listening (as I do) to the classical station.
Back then, there was an afternoon feature by the drive-home host, a song with some intersection of classical and contemporary music. I think it was on this tiny feature I heard Zap Mama the first time, and it might have been near or next to the second broadcast of Garrison Keillor poetry moment.
The reason KUSC played the particular track (by a singer-songwriter called David Wilcox) was the plucked Bach Air (in G) at the end of the sung lyric.
I wrote the last sentence wholly trusting everybody has heard of J.S. Bach. If you haven’t heard of Bach, I’m very sorry. (FYI: math isn’t really difficult.)
Anyway, this is the Wilcox lyric. It is not extensive.
It is immense.
If I had a spell of magic
I would make this enchantment for you
A burgundy heart-shaped medallion
With a window that you could look through
So that when all the mirrors are angry
With your faults and all you must do
You could peek through that heart-shaped medallion
And see you from my point of view
I do not consistently see myself through anything like this burgundy heart-shaped medallion, though I suspect it’s more honest than all this noise in my grumpy, hungry, crowded head.
Sometimes, when giving advice, I assure whomever’s at the other end: I am telling you this to tell myself.
In all the advice I offer (to myself), I come back to desire, I return to pleasure. A thing I say to newly coupled up or cohab sorts: “The most successfully married people I know fuck daily.”
Even this is advice to myself, though I’m devoutly single.
I think about these lines a lot:
…when all the mirrors are angry
With your faults and all you must do
Me, in a mirror:
weird pouch belly/stretched out thighs/stupid boxy hands/all that is wrong in my forehead/embarrassing posture/ridiculously clenched jaw I never look like myself in photos. I’ve lost the thread of minimalism I don’t know what I want any more Do I care about anything, at all? I keep forgetting things in the budget why aren’t I working overtime right now I haven’t seen my uncle in two weeks I haven’t posted a month of letters.
Nothing is comfortable because I deserve no comfort.
I’m caught in my curls. Or must excuse their lack.
I beg pardon when people reject that my hair isn’t grey and I’m 40 years old.
I dither about what to wear to walk to the market. “Will that skirt and this t-shirt with those boots adequately convey the truth of my being to complete strangers?!”
Fuck all of that.
One doesn’t look into mirrors to see other people. Nobody else is telling me these things.
I didn’t plant my feet on the ocean floor to maintain pretense.
I didn’t stay alive to beg pardons.
I didn’t name myself to offer excuses.
Listen (she says to herself), here’s the reality: your wingspan is the prime meridian. It is not a fucking farce. It has precisely nothing to do with anybody else. your own sweetest hausfrau, your own most apt project manager, your own most generous sugardaddy, and, your own best girl.
Curls, bones, skin, blood, salt and all.
Goddamnit, Sanger. Get up and fucking fight.
Take me to bed and fuck me into that doubtless gaze. Fuck me so good that I walk funny.
(Here’s a link to the song if you want to listen (it’s not really a video)).
Dear internet radio algorithms.
The way you do classical makes me want to puke into f-holes.
This is a phrase I started using in 3rd grade. I was in 3rd grade 32 years ago.
As far back as I remember music, I remember classical music. My parents weren’t terribly into classical. My mother loves Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, but she couldn’t tell you Spring from Autumn, though she’ll happily admit that she’s not really interested in knowing music.
My grandparents, on the other hand, were well-versed in classical. And jazz. And some pop, though not very much. A lot of Dixieland, Big Band, Swing. And classical. Once upon a time, my grandmother was a concert pianist and my grandfather had his own dance band. He could play any wind instrument.
I fell in love with cello when I was in first grade. At the beautifully weird elementary school my brother and I attended, that’s was the first year you could enroll in music. But only for stringed instruments, winds had to wait until third grade. (When he could, my brother opted for oboe. What a weirdo.)
The ensemble introducing stringed instruments declared cellists had an easier time learning if their left-hand pinky went past the top knuckle of the ring finger. I didn’t care that my fingers weren’t ideal. I would make it work. I showed off my hands could stretch! I had done a year of piano lessons and could bridge an octave from thumb-to-pinky. By the way, I didn’t like piano lessons.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter too much whether my hands were ideal or not; most 1st and 2nd graders at all interested in strings wanted a violin. I got to learn cello!
So, my intellectual interaction with classical music began more than thirty years ago. Long before I began studying cello (it got to be “studying” kind of serious, private lessons on weekends in Chicago, not just ensemble classes in the afternoons at school), I knew (at the very least) the melodies of the biggies like Pachelbel’s Canon in D, Bach’s 3rd Brandenburg, etc..
The first young persons’ orchestra with which I played had a rehearsal conductor that I precociously found lacking. With every ounce of the earnest melodrama a 9-year-old might impart, I bemoaned to my all-knowing grandfather, “he is like a bear! Both hands do the same thing! Every five measures, he’s another beat too slow.”
My grandfather did not likely pat my head and ignore me. It is very likely that he knew I wasn’t fucking around. My grandfather, my kindred spirit, was my first conductor. I learned how to follow a baton from his own deft, long hands.
For my first (very big) performance, the program concluded with Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, conducted not by the no-rhythm bear who had rehearsed us, but by a fiery, brilliant woman. She smiled, she fairly danced, she was perfectly fucking joyful. I had my music memorized, so I didn’t — I couldn’t take my eyes off her, her face, her hands, her baton. I trusted her immediately, fully.
I have no idea what her name was. When the fireworks went at the end of the piece (timpani? blanks shot into barrels?) I wasn’t startled. My cello and I were the same, together with the others to make an amazing sound, all part of this glorious moment. There was nothing shocking at all about it.
I’m long past playing cello now, though I’m pretty good at appreciation. And, for an abjectly armchair, fully un-credentialed critic, I’m OK saying that I do or do not enjoy a performance.
I took myself last year to a performance of the Emperor Concerto that I hated from the beginning (because of the conductor (not the pianist or orchestra, both of which I would have liked if they didn’t seem so much like they’d rather not be there, dragged about the piece)). At lunch with colleagues the next day, I said (with no hope of anyone knowing what I meant), “It was fucking awful. I wanted it to end so badly I clapped between movements.” One of my colleagues coughed like he was choking on his noodle soup. I almost yelped. “You understand?!” He looked at me, water-blue eyes intent; he nodded.
For the uninitiated in philharmonic etiquette: wait to applaud until the whole thing is done. This is signaled to the audience when the conductor lowers her or his arms all the way.
Take this comparison: there are many theatre companies that might perform Hamlet or Midsummer Night’s Dream. One company does not produce the same show as another. I don’t overmuch love the Emperor, but it was on a program with other pieces I VERY MUCH love, so I took it in, with the unstudied expectation it would be OK enough. I didn’t stay for Pictures at an Exhibition (Mussorgsky), which is really one of my favorites ever.
I wrote most of all of that to say to anyone with any idea about algorithms: just because it’s classical music does not mean it is calming. Bach is generally cheerful and mostly groovy, (I’ve got theories. I won’t discuss here). For reals, google. It appears as though you’re trying to sink the entire “lowercase c classical” genre simply because there’s no copyright by which you might get with profit. None of the classical mediation radio! is good for what it says it is. It is Romance; the Baroque pieces are buoyant and there are too many terpsichorean glories, whether vast or tiny, to be considered “soothing.” Personally, I don’t find nearly anything “soothing” written by Ravel, Mahler, or Faure. They’re enervating, maybe rousing. Usually I hate Debussy, because I longly and largely hate Debussy, so he’s no good for “meditation” or “soporific.” All of the mentioned composers stir me out of easy or sleepy and fully negate the lullaby because I’d rather stay awake to listen. What the hell sort of meditation do you expect is ensuing via Saint-Saens? Can you stop it?! I want to listen and sleep at the same time. Riots don’t only issue from the flights of Wagner or marches of Williams. There’s a lot to hear in a lot of works.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His list’ning brethren stood around,
And, wond’ring, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound,
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell
That spoke so sweetly and so well
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
Two hours before sunrise, I turned off the a/c. I still woke up around seven. I tried to talk myself into going out for breakfast, but couldn’t decide where I’d go, so I made bacon and eggs and did dishes and I tucked in to readsleep again. The one place I wanted (possibly needed) to go wasn’t open until ten.
Around 9.30 I was up, headed to get a coffee out; I wanted to leave the a/c off as much as I could today. I needed second breakfast. I went to a market on the same street as the other place, got snacks I know and queued up on one of two lines, both long, both stacked with people who had full carts. The person ahead of me “did a record spend!” (his bill came to $248).
I had two bottles of water, two Epic bars, a flat pack of gum.
The person behind me asked: “Is that from Hindu or something?”
I’d like to state for this record that I understand the risks of visible bod-mod. I can recite short explications off by heart. I say, “thank you for asking!” when those (overcome with curiosity) ask to make tactile contact with the beautiful scar carved on my right arm. I say thank you for asking even when I say no, please don’t.
I know, even in Los Angeles, there’s an omnipresent objectification (notwithstanding bod mod) and it’s accepted that I asked for this because I’ve decorated or altered my own body. (More on this some other time.)
Whether the public consumes these isn’t my concern. Ink, scars, metal, curly hair (!) do not actually mean I am an interactive cultural anthropology exhibit.
It so happened yesterday two people (at a different market) commented on the labyrinth tattoo but they were rather sweetly awestruck and immensely more respectful. One approached me from outside my vision, whilst I dithered about which bourbon I wanted. “Excuse me, please?” I turned to see a store-uniform-wearing woman, young. I thought she was going to tell me I needed to put my stuff in a basket not my satchel.
“Your artwork is so beautiful, what is it?” I realize she means the tattoo between my shoulder blades.
“It’s a labyrinth.” I smiled. I could see her thinking, I tried to help, “It’s a path, it’s a walking meditation, there’s only one way into the center, and a different way leads back to the beginning. There’s an Ancient Greek myth of Daedalus -”
“Oh! Ariadne!” We shared a really big smile. Not everyone gets that one. She repeated her compliment, and I said thanks, and that was it.
The other interaction, minutes later, similarly “that’s wicked cool!” And then we talked about the scarification. He reached, but stopped himself: “Oh shit, I should ask!” though I hadn’t flinched. I said thanks!, but he reconsidered, because scars are cool and all that but “you mean you really actually had your flesh removed?” is a bit further afield for most.
This morning, with my Epic bars and and my waters, waiting behind the record-setter of a grocery shopper, a woman blurts “is that from Hindus or something?” which is a clumsy overture (if not ugly), and I really just want to drink all the water in the entire store and also all the water in all the stores and eat my bacon bars and I don’t feel like speaking, let alone explaining anything to anyone. I can barely figure out why the fuck did I come to Torrance? I’m groggy and cranky because I needed to eat an hour ago.
“The words are transliterated Sanskrit. From The Upanishads. Quoted by T.S. Eliot.”
This answer was pointedly deliberate intellectual snobbery. I wanted to avoid further conversation.
And I totally missed the fucking mark.
In the future, I will say: Please leave me alone, I want to eat second breakfast and to recall why the fuck I drove to Torrance.
She kept talking to me. “Yah but that maze thing?”
“A maze has multiple ways to get through. A labyrinth isn’t about confusion, it’s about clarity. It’s meditation.”
I wish to all the bacon that I fabricated any of her reply.
Oh, yeah, I was in Morocco? With a professor?! And we needed to have a piss and finally found the toilets, we called it the toilet labyrinth! and there was a sign ‘wash closet’ and — I’m Jewish, you see — omygad we found out later that we shit where the Arabs wash their faces. I don’t care! (laughs) They deserve it for all the things Arabs and Muslims did to us.
My mouth goes dry, gaping at her. I invoke the literal, trying to make a point. “They who? When you used the toilet?”
“No, but omygah!, I asked this tour guide if they could find out my dna from the shit I took because those people are totally going to come after me, right?”
“…in a different place there was much better signs: Turkish toilets and American Toilets. It’s better not to have to share that with them. Those people.”
What in seven goddamned evers has this got to do with my tattoo? I look towards the record-setter in front of me, all bent on optimism his tab was nearly calculated.
Then, Moroccan-toilet-storyteller took a step too close to me and grabbed my arm to see more of my ink.
I step away and pull my arm from her.
“Please do not touch me. I do not know you.”
She says, “Oh, I’m a cool person!” As if saying this means it’s ok for her to step toward me again and reach toward me again.
I step back again.
Slowly, calmly (I have sweet fuck no idea how) I say:
“You did not ask me if you could touch me. And you’re racist.”
I left the explicit unspoken. Here it is: racism is not cool.
She shut up and backed off.
I don’t always make plans. Presently, my laundry is begging for attention. It’s an hour from last call at the laundromat and I’m not bothering with it. I have socks and drawers for tomorrow. It’ll do.
I get paid to make plans, and by all accounts that matter (by which I mean those of my chief), I’m pretty good at it. In the part of life for which I’m not for sale, (Real Life), I can be counted on to have coffee and cigarettes and enough gas in the tank and probably an avocado (or liverwurst) and wine; I’m naturally inclined to share. (I’m a twin.)
Some time ago, I stopped fretting my meagre holdings as deficient or deficiency. Admittedly, it can be a chore to choke out Guilt when I come home from work and do not continue to work.
In Real Life, I don’t plan so much. I read. I write. I read more than I write. Recently, I’ve been keeping my distance from writing fiction with something like dedicated precision. Some of this is to do with the unceasing demand of getting up and going to work rather than having endless hours to pace in my studio, go outside to smoke, drink coffee and construct.
An aside about the pacing of studio, making/drinking of coffee and smoking, since some people do not do this:
I’m a thinky, feely, bright person and I’m not pin-point focused. When I’m having a hard time stringing language into words, I do chores, give up to finger paints. I draw or sculpt to remove phlegm from my brain. I’ve been known to cook some fucked up amazing brussel sprouts. I’ve made bacon-infused bourbon butter.
There’s always music going.
My own writing of late is journalism or memoir and I’ve been on a mile-wide streak observing, not always with rapt intention. A few weeks ago, I got up on a stool at a whisky bar in DTLA to have a drink, killing time as I made my way to the Observatory for sunset.
“Makers, double. Neat. Water back, please. Can I buy you a shot?”
I had out no tiny notebook, no smartphone, no laptop.
Here’s what happened next:
“Hey, I’m Al. Let me get your drinks, I want you to hear my story. You’re a writer.”
I ordered bourbon in a whisky bar. This doesn’t seem like it would indicate much past “I’m keen on bourbon.” I listen to Al for a while.
The next five people who come know Al in some degree of Kevin Bacon, and all of them are cajoled to telling me a story and buying me a drink. I’m on foot and Metro, so I’m mostly fine with this.
Except the part where everyone accepts I’m a writer and I haven’t.
Because I’m mindful of water consumption and we’re in the midst of a bitch of a drought, I haven’t washed or had my car washed in many, many moons. (Though, there was vacuuming here and there.) Today, I decided to have it done whilst the detail service came to the office where I work. Follow me down this morality tale, won’t you?
I walked into the parking lot to find and record my license plate number on the slip I’m supposed to include with my key and payment in an envelope. On my way back to the building, the Car Wash Fella approaches me, asking which is mine, he’ll do it now.
This is the most popular concierge service we have at work, so I’m pretty impressed at his go-get-’em, and I point to my car, (Ollie Cooper) and he takes the envelope I’ve just pressed closed. It’s 9.35a.
The acting receptionist says, “Did he take your key? Yours is the last one he’s doing, there were only two others,” (she named colleagues, that doesn’t matter here). “Oh, yes, he did, oh, OK, oh.” I reply, confused at the whole thing. I go back to where I face a corner in the bullpen I inhabit, and prep for an 11.00 call.
At 11.53a, I wander to the lobby, expecting to collect my key and scout lunch that might probably involve some combination of bacon, avocado, spinach and coffee. I mean, it had been more than 2 hours, but $20 express service has ever taken that long.
La Receptionista says, “he didn’t bring back your key. But, he’s gone, he left.”
She looks away, as if she can see a different place on the glass wall and blinks. “Maybe he left the key in your car?” she offers, but not very helpfully. (N.B.: She’s not helpful, generally.)
I stalk out (I have impeccable posture and I wear 4.5” stiletto-heeled knee-high leather boots, I do not usually stalk) to my car, unhappy at having no key. The car is unlocked but don’t worry, my key isn’t anywhere to be found within it.
Neither have I packed a lunch today.
I go back inside, miffed (this is uncharacteristic, I don’t broadcast when I’m righteously pissed at work. Work can have all the quirky and the smartest-ditz-in-the-room, but fuming is for walls that don’t talk back). I mention it to somebody, but I walk to my desk (my bullpen (and my corner) is the farthest walk from either entrance), so when someone approaches me, I stop them from asking me for anything with a my hand up, and he gets that I’m saying (at the very least), “Not yet, not right now, I’m clocked out for lunch.”
I ring the service’s number but get the answering machine, so I leave word.
I email them.
I email my office building facilities manager.
“The detail service left with my car key, please can he bring it back.”
I leave word again for the car wash place.
I go outside, thinking I’d find a smoke to smoke, but I don’t really want to smoke, so I walked two laps around the building. Half way through the second one, the car washing van careens around the first corner of the lot, stopping. The fella to whom I’d handed my key bounds out in the same motion with which he’s stopped the truck and removed the key (grr) from the ignition, jovially explaining how hungry he had gotten and he had to go to his lunch, he has my key! He still has to do the windows and tires! He’s really glad about seeing me. He tells me two more times how hungry he was and how he got lunch. I’m about to eat a kitten.
How did he not finish this in 2 hours? It’s not really that much of a mess except the outside parts.
I don’t care. I finish my lot-lap and walk back into the A/C’d office and clock in from lunch and go outside to smoke, but I don’t, I try to cheer a sourpuss up by telling my “car-wash-guy-decided-it-was-lunchtime” story and she and I settle on the adjective “absurd.” When three other colleagues join, I half tell the story, asking OnceSour to chime in with her theories on why he took his lunch if mine was the last car to wash.
I stutter-step on my way in so I can congratulate a Sys Admin on a successful project close and Car Wash Fella whistles and “Hey, Lady!”s me with my key and he really wanted me to tip him.
I love tipping. I did not tip him.
I’m OK with this revealing I’m a control freak but I was also really hungry.
And this is the story of how this girl learned to not bother having her car washed in the middle of this matchstick-drought.
It’s the middle of the night, really. I meant to go to dinner 40 miles away, but then I got skittish because I discovered one of my headlamps is out and I know my registration is overdue, so I drank wine and read some of a beautiful history book. When that was done, I worked on a close reading of a novel (2nd time reading). Close reading takes a lot longer.
It’s the middle of the night because I’ve been working (as my Chief calls them) “half days! Six a.m. to six p.m.!” I want to argue that I’m not a sailor, I was never in the Navy. But I don’t argue, not about that. Production environment versus test bed credentials or change records, maybe. About anything with some logical or reasoned foundation — for those I might could propose a different POV. I do not dare dispute working the same hours he does; I do my damnedest to tote barges and lift bales, even if they’re all virtual. It’s glorious, it’s exhausting. But now I’m awake and it’s 5 hours before I’ll get up to swab the decks.
Insomnia has been a more prevalent theme than usual this summer. A summer gone by without once bathing in the Ocean. Giant waves, broken skin and bones, stinging rays, and more giant waves have kept me to the sand. I am not sure if I’ve gotten into saltwater since my birthday in April, and it feels like it’s been hot since May. I wonder: if I was so brave as that ocean, might I be sleeping soundly right now.
I slept next to an octopus recently, and so remarkably well that I endured her jibes in the morning – my snoozing so late and the talk in my sleep. “I hope it wasn’t incriminating!” (It was nonsense, it seems.) Perhaps my slumber was due to the comfort of that cephalopod. If only I could offer some tiny bit of comfort to her in return.
This morning I woke up startled at some ridiculous hour in my own soft bed, convinced of some interloping creature, but probably only my stirring wrinkled the sheet. I jolted awake, ready to fucking riot, at DEFCON 5.
I’m going to crawl into a salted & anointed bath, then crawl under a cover and try to rest, try to stay still (stillness is the very biggest demand I (or maybe anyone) makes of myself), consider beautiful things, beautiful people and all the awesome beautiful everything. Tomorrow is nearly here, but tomorrow it’s going to be ok to be great at what I do, to smile at people who think I cannot see them, to stand up tall even if I’m just here to swab the decks.
Heavy and empty at the same time, I got into bed late last night, probably justified in feeling hard done by.
I woke up earlier than the first alarm clock goes, blurry and soft and half-grinning. My mouth isn’t screwed up and clenched. I shuffle/stumble to get water and head outside to smoke and decide whether I should re-sleep or make an honest woman of the day.
“Fuck yes, Monday. Let’s have a dance.”
The extra-full-glorious moon illuminates the backyard with blue/white/crispness. I come inside and drink a pint and a half of water. I haven’t kissed my kitchen goodnight in any way all weekend or so, and before I can deal with much more than the kettle to get coffee going, there’s dishes.
I’ve explained poorly why I love doing dishes, why I love cleaning my kitchen. What it isn’t about is tidiness. It isn’t about hyper-organization. The acts of sweeping and mopping are really a rosary, though I’ve never been Catholic.
Technology, a liquid unconstrained, covers most of my life. I make plans to launch code for a living. I send sextastic messages via digital means to arrange my free time. I know everyone socially because I found out online there was somewhere to go, something to do, people to meet.
Housekeeping is more or less by rote, and there’s no puzzle to solve, no invention demanded. And because of that my muscles, hands and back take the wheel: my head can do whatever it needs to sort out whatever there may be.
And I again realize that I can control my floors and my dishes. I can make my bed in fresh linens, and I can manage only so much as my aspect, the extent of my reach. I cannot control traffic or damned near anything to do with anyone else. The exception to that is my ability to ensure the clarity of my communication. You know I love you, right? If you need me to say it differently, please let me know.
The moon is setting now, dawn twilight hemming the indigo sky, half pink with the lights of the port. Today.
Fuck yes. Let’s have a dance