I never managed a nap. My emai's been blinking like a whorehouse on crack. Besides, it's been A Day. Tired as I am, I've been wringing the last drops out of it, savoring.
Then there's the brave...foolhardy?...email to R.
Unfinished business: that's the theme of whatever phase it is I'm in.
Not foolhardy: I did the right thing, making contact. Replies aren't my responsibility. I had a responsibility to write.
I see smiling faces of kind, intelligent people whenever I start to doze and nod.
I feel protected and nurtured. I feel capable. I feel satisfied.
There are a couple more email blinks I'd like to see before I sleep, but I'm not holding my breath.
Besides, how nice it would be to waken to a friendly word from one of them!
I've gone the whole day without any temptation to feel: sorry for myself, resentful, defensive, or any of the other defensive things behind which I desperately try to hide when I'm thrown.
I don't feel thrown. I have equilibrium. I'm calm. Or exhausted, one or the other.
Maybe tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, I'll freak out for a brief moment, but I doubt it.
It has suddenly occurred to me, again, that there are many aromas I haven't smelled yet, many flavors I haven't tasted.
Today reminded me of that.
I'm a cook; I'm not intimidated easily by the "exotic." After all, when you think about it, truffles and lobsters are pretty disgusting things, but my gawd! The savors! Fungus and bugs. Yummy. With butter.
So, my mouth is watering at the possibilities before me I'd never have considered before.
Startling days will do that to a person.
I've managed to hold out until just after seven pm.
I can't keep my left eye open, at all and am squinting like a pirate, robbed of his patch.
The air conditioner motor is hypnotic; it sounds like some harmonic chorus.
I'm fading in and out again from acute consciousness, and my dream state is leaking into my waking state.
It's a little like good drugs, I'd think.
Altered consciousness, following altered consciousness.
She slashes off my head with a blade so sharp, I didn't feel the cut. She slices open my skull to drink my bloody brain, dancing on my still living body.
Daikini, coyote, spider, rabbit, trickster, sister.
One day, maybe, friend.
It's hard for me to imagine otherwise, given the intimacy of her extreme makeover techniques.
When these epiphanies come, the trickster never asks, "shall I take a little off the sides?"
Oh, no: it's always, "surprise! Your cranium's bisected like a Crenshaw melon! Isn't it delicious?"
Good thing I bought a thousand asprin!
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