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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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morning and time
These are the details of my morning: Half asleep, in jeans and a tie-dyed t-shirt, unloading the dishwasher at two thirty in the morning: fifties diner cups and glass measuring cup and plastic measuring cups with the measurements written on them in black magic marker (because the original markings faded and I can't trust myself where measurements are concerned) and mostly small plates and flatware. Half asleep, in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt and the green flip-flops that double as slippers, loading the dishwasher with dirty dishes at two thirty in the morning: Last night's dinner dishes with their sticky salsa and taco shell crumbs and yesterday's lunch dishes scraped of dried pasta and sauce. I don't rinse them. Having misread the clock, feeding the wagging, awakened TATA and KEKE their new pellet fishfood at two-thirty in the morning. In their new environment (or groggy with sleep as I am), they are hesitant to greet me even with the reward of tasty BB shaped pellets. Fish fed, they are dreamily swimming their way around their newly cleaned aquarium, lazily picking up bright blue bits of gravel in their mouths and mouthing it (tasting it?) before letting it drop. Filled Max's big brown Portland bowl with mom's fifteen bean soup from a plastic freezer bag and microwaved it and ate it, half asleep, for breakfast, sitting at the kitchen table wondering where the sun was, having misread the clock, thinking it was a time other than two or three in the morning. Drooping, tired eyes focused on the paperback that I will keep reading until its read, having realized that I've misread the clock, that it's three in the morning not six. Even if I went back to bed (which I did), it would still mean no sleep. Max sleeping. The cats sleeping, but awake enough to want to come and investigate the could-be-turkey-lunchmeat-plastic-wrap-crinkling sounds coming from the wrapping on the cheese which I am grating to put on the thought-to-be breakfast (really a middle of the night snack). I have to go through the ritual of letting them sniff the wrapping and offering them a tiny bit of cheese (which they decline) so that they will continue to trust me. Sadly, I will never be a non-sharer of food with pets despite what vets want me to do. Reading until the book is read and listening to Carly Simon (a tape of a record album complete with scratchy pauses inbetween the songs) and not sleeping. Television very early in the morning--quiet, useless news--while curled up on the couch beneath the scratchy brown blanket and a cat who doesn't know whether it wants to be pet or not. The clouds keep the sun from rising. They say it in so many words on the news, so I make tea and wake Max and we have tea (English breakfast, cream, sugar for me) and while he dresses for work, I write this. It's been six hours and fifteen minutes.
More lies:
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