The oddest thing just happened. I’m working on a poem just now, a narrative of a Kenyan folk tale I found last year. I had struggled with it for weeks – or more accurately, I had avoided sitting down to it for weeks – and then somehow tonight, things started to come fairly freely. Suddenly there was progress, and a poem was filling up space and time.
So I kept working. It’s several verses longer now, and the meter has changed. And I just kept going, and now it’s past my bedtime. This is a common occurrence: somehow I have some of my most satisfying ideas when I’m close to keeling over, when I’m drunk from lack of sleep. I’ve nodded off in front of a poem enough times that I think my nose may be flattening, just a bit.
So. This thing that happened. I decided enough was enough, and it was time to brush my teeth. So I got up from my desk and started toward the bathroom.
Here’s the layout of my place: as I sit at my desk, with my back to the street-facing windows, I look directly into my kitchen. The apartment is sortof T-shaped. So to the left of the kitchen is my son’s room, and to the right is my daughter’s. The bathroom, where I was headed, is off the kitchen, by my daughter’s room. Got that?
There’s this feeling, when it’s really late and the kids are both sound, sound, sound asleep, that I don’t want to wake them, but virtually nothing I do would ever have any effect anyway. They pretty much sleep like stones. So there’s just this feeling, a notion of their presence, as I make my way through the kitchen, by both their rooms, toward the bathroom. Just a notion, a familiarity with the idea of their being there, a comfort of maybe a sleeping aura spreading out into the rest of the apartment, so I pass through it as I maneuver by the table and then the stove. Or something.
It’s just a little thing. I got up from my desk, started through the kitchen, and felt it, and was comforted by it, as usual, as always. It’s just that… they’re not here. They’re with their mother.
The thing is, it was so very comforting, you know?
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Alysa Salzberg
Melissa Miles McCarter
Scarlett Sumac
jlsathre
Matt Paust
Jowita Bydlowska
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Comments
Smiling here.
Sleep well.
Happy Easter, DB.
Enmity is a Mystery. Life goes on.
Divorce Bard. Thanks. I sense too.
Some inner thoughts brew for weeks.
Then ~Something just Happen. Boom!
I visualized Ya T- shaped abode. Yikes!
`
The Home I Recall as a child was similar.
The kitchen, a hallway with bedrooms,
and a indoor flush-spring bath commode.
`
We always complained that the toilet was?
The designer built a indoor-pot by rooms.
Pot?
That's a indoor 'outhouse' by bedrooms.
That interior hut-designer was very lousy.
If a eater had gas-pains we 'kids' woke up.
`
Never build homes with a commode inside?
No.
No eat Morel Mushrooms late in the night.
Why?
Because you might emit a loud sound`Boom!
Ay Huh?
If 'kids' (baby goats) live there they wake up!
O, pew.
Stinky.
heehaw.
`
I may try to 'cut & paste' images of morels.
But . . .
I am more & more just losing faith in bunny?
tease . . .
funny . . .
Kerry funny.
He bunny hop.
Why's editor . . .
____? so cruel?
Oh, Never mind.
`
It Don't Mean Nothin'
Have a fun Holiday
`
on Easter Sunday
a sad bunny wishing
she'd never been born
`
tease . . .
transcend sad
hop along happy
`
`
`
........(¯`v´¯) (¯`v´¯)
☼•*¨`*•.¸.(ˆ◡ˆ).¸.•*
............... *•.¸.•* ♥⋆★•❥ Thanx & Smiles (ツ) & ♥ L☼√Ξ ☼ ♥
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