My attention is a little divided today. The dreams I had last night of snow and mittens and biking are still with me, but only as snow and mittens and biking. As are the bendy moves I just performed on my studio floor. Twists and rolls and side planking. As is the meditation I sat through watching watching watching my thoughts spin and whirl their yellow and not-so-yellow. Beckett is up devouring cereal. Ruby the cat licks and paws her fuzzed ears. I should be more affectionate towards Ruby I think, maybe pick her up and stroke her head for an hour each day. She's a heavy lap cat. Her heft puts my lap to sleep. Things to remember, follow the yellow brick road, blink rapidly with every hour of screen time, wiggle the body, walk slowly, hunger pains. Things not to remember, that itch.
Reads
A few new reads - thanks to my memoir writing teacher Jay Ponteri
Sandy - two thousand and six
Swimming around your perimeter, against a rocky shoreline.
Cutting onions in your kitchen in a stained white apron. The anticipation of breath on my neck.
Reading Neruda, I step over logs.
Dreams in a glorified cot, cardboard pillow, bats hover above.
Water slips over the edge of the rowboat, soaking my yellow dress.
Plucking voracious ticks from our hair and backs. It's the most we've touched, it's infuriating.
I look for you everywhere. In the lake, in the trees, in the bathrooms with your toilet brush.
Injecting an esoteric performance at a wholesome talent show made for families.
I say come here. And everything changes.
