Kid just loves him some cows (komos) wrote,
Kid just loves him some cows

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The past couple of days have seen me sleep straight through maximum snooze. This hasn’t been a significant problem since the alarm is set quite early anyway, but it is interesting to me. I know I could get up, but it feels like my mind is reluctant to embark upon the gross task of interacting with the world. The snooze plays the radio for me, an oldies station whose morning crew talks far too much. I didn’t set it there… the dial seems to wander on its own. I hear about contest giveaways, the weather, somebody’s dog and then the alarm is done. A half hour follows where I drop straight into dreams and there is no way to break me from them.

At 7:29, I look up, get up, clean up, all the while wondering what sort of message I’m supposed to take away from what I’ve just seen. Is it flotsam? Elements of what I’ve been reading and doing and talking about are bleeding into the dream space, but altered, recreated, built upon. Constructs based on fanciful logic. Waking reality has been fuzzy, not so much lacking definition, but as though the barriers between worlds or minds or perceptions are malleable, weakening.

Is it really crazy if it makes me feel better or more at peace or calm?

This morning, wandering in a seaside town. Stone everywhere, right down to the paving of the narrow streets. I remember stepping on them, the feel of the irregular surface beneath my shoes. It was warm, and the lot of us looking for a place to put our groceries and just sit. A group of friends, but only two women… one, another’s lover for whom I carried a quiet flame; the other beautiful but inaccessible, like a mother to us all. She had a basket with bread and olive oil. We found empty café tables beneath a red and white awning, smell of sea air strong wafting from the bay. We, feeding sparrows and speaking in poetry and drinking Moretti straight from the bottle. Our words, spontaneous, profound, meaningful for the moment. I take a long draught and smile at our matron. The beer, the bread dipped in oil, the glance are all sweet. I want to sing.

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