Tonight I woke, too hot, in your new fuzzy poly sheets that feel like blankets. I no longer care for these sheets.
Two nights in a row last week, I awoke when your old cat jumped upon my chest. That smart cat does not care if I wake. The cat desires that I exclaim, something. Anything. Because after I react, you wake and feed your cat, now addicted to some new liver bit.
When I sleep at the farm, the coyote pups have begun to wake me. The dogs in their prowling. The rain on the roof. I hear the farmer wake: his springs, the stairs, the door on his wood stove. I hear the chiming of the clock, the coffee timely perking well at six. Usually I don't rise at Roberson. I linger, and I absorb what feels like cotton, old root, and soul. I think.
Sometimes when I wake, I read. I read and read and read and read. Frazier's Nightwoods now. Sometimes I read OS and comment. Sometimes not. Sometimes I view. Sometimes I dig in genealogy. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I paint. I am tortured happy in these waking hours.
When I was married, my waking ticked Bill off. Eighteen years together is along time to piss another off. He would bitch and moan and bitch and moan. He thought my writing contained secrets. He did not read much, mine or anothers. He did not care for art. But he was all about controlling secrets. Once after we fought (he didn't want chili...), I went to town and bought the thickest steak. I came back to the house and threw the chili from the 2nd floor into the pool and put the steak on the hot Jenn-Air grill, and quickly ate it rare. But that story is well done now and gone, and I no longer wake screaming, face slightly under water by his hand.
I think I'm waking now because you want to marry. And then you don't. And then you do. You see enough to know why I do not say yes. But you hope. And then you don't. And you keep rubbing my back. And we dine. And we select another series. And we nestle, then sleep, but one does not.
I wake.
1 Creative Commons, 2.5 generic: Overview of biological circadian clock in humans.
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Ashley Holt
jackie2
The Songbird
Bullet or Film
Ernesto Tinajero
Rodney Roe
Salon.com
Comments
Rated!
You nailed it well.
`
"tortured happiness"
`
Michele (2- 'L's) o, hell
She was clutched in ribs
Some "artist" lured her
`
You need a new `Farmer
to love and annoy until
life do we cook soup,
hoe weeds, pick peas,
beets, tied bouquets,
and be in the potato
itchy-barn hay-stack?
`
Read Salon Personnel?
Buy on E-Bay a Pillow?
Get Valentine Mattress.
So @ Discount Bed Shop.
Adds can be cut-coupons.
We listen to James Levine.
He conducts @ `The Met.
You can be on the `Farm.
The Enchanted Island.
That was yesterday.
Today we ponder.
Why worry. No.
It's too exhausting.
Cultivate gratitude.
No contract hitch.
`
Sing like you`Solo
Sing when we`Blue
Sing in the night too.
I nickname `scupper.
You can be `Sunshine.
We cancan be happy-broke.
Listen to Baroque sonatas.
Sign reads: No yodeling.
♥║╔═╗║║║║║║╔══╣╔══╣╔╗╔╗║♥
♥║╚══╣║║║║║╚══╣╚══╬╝║║╚╝♥
♥╚══╗║╚╝╚╝║╔══╣╔══╝─║║
♥║╚═╝╠╗╔╗╔╣╚══╣╚══╗─║║
♥╚═══╝╚╝╚╝╚═══╩═══╝─╚because sometimes your really together.
Adrienne Rich wrote a poem that stays with me about woman and our holding the nights for our own.
Always enjoy when you allow us into your world.
rouses you
to speak in ways
you won't hear
any other time
the hardest part
is listening
yet in the silence
all you need to hear
is there
trust the quiet
the awakenings
and the journey
(not so much the cat)
love to you
lovely read
so very rated
r
I like it all ~ I just get distracted by pictures.
You can live alone beyond the point of no return, I think.
It's not so bad ;-)
Get outta there.
"tortured happy in these waking hours" appeals to me ... perhaps I could be a little more creative in my waking hours ... well try to be creative at least. : )
I'm glad Bill is long gone. Best wishes for the now to settle, scupper.