I love the softness of a flannel nightgown, the smell of coffee brewing even though I don’t drink it, being left alone with my thoughts, figuring out a new dress pattern, and sometimes …
I love the softness of a flannel nightgown, the smell of coffee brewing even though I don’t drink it, being left alone with my thoughts, figuring out a new dress pattern, and sometimes repairing windows. Most of all I love getting into my very comfortable ‘nest’ at sundown after a long day’s work.
Bedtime is my favorite time of day. I might dream of riding a flying horse or just flying on my own; soaring to alarming heights at unimaginable speeds. In dreamland, I’ve been working on a soft landing since childhood, however, as soon I get close to touchdown I lose all bearings. My only choice, it seems, is to zoom up and away again; the mere effort, of which, often wakes me with a start.
Toasted almond bars, sundae cups and ice cream sandwiches conjure youthful memories of summer evenings by the lake, but the savoring of those treats ceased ages ago. I’ve long given up dairy in favor of Keto cups; not a substitute by any means, I had to acquire a taste for them. It’s an endless shame they’re so small. I’m partial to hazelnut and almond butter although in an emergency, I’ll take the plain ones. Typically, I allow myself only one, however lately, I’ve been eating two at a time; sometimes three. It’s my last and only indulgence.
Bicycle rides are my solace, sewing is my daily bread, and music has been my mantra ever since I was born. When lonely, bored or just plain in need of exercise, I walk uphill past Provisions and the Callicoon Brewery until I’m about out of air and words become spaced and breathy. The point is to sweat, something I’ve been avoiding all my life, but now have the good sense to at least try to embrace.
I’m afraid of what lies beneath the ocean, most parental units, and anything that can rotate its head more than 180 degrees like the praying mantis, which I’ve only seen twice in my entire life. The second time, I tried petting it as if it would hop into my lap and respond with pleasure. It only recoiled at my touch.
There’s always an infinite amount of work ahead and even though I tackle it, most of it remains undone. These days I wonder if getting to any of it matters more than smelling the roses; I get lost in the sweetest ones watching the most curious bugs.
I can’t sit idle for even a short period of time. I guess you could say that ambition has always been my sidecar. It requires forecasting, a good deal of intention and consistency, which I’ve come to learn necessitates some measure of presence. However, like a child consumed in imagination, I’m often oblivious to the day of the week, sometimes even the year. “Time is amorphous for the rank sensualist!” a friend once said probably alluding to the most consistent thing about me; inconsistency.
Recently, I had trouble digesting onions, so I gave a satchel full away to a friend who asked, “Are you giving me these because of the recent recall in onions due to salmonella?” Deep inside, I felt it was a legitimate question and so reassured the person they were grown locally. Maybe I’m down to one friend at the moment and it’s not because of onions.
Right now there’s some bone broth to my left, a chocolate bar to my right and decades of unresolved ideas to shape into some sort of future, and frankly speaking, I just don’t know where to start.
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