In the quiet before everyone wakes, when all the options are not yet selected and the day is empty fill-in-the-blanks, I taste time, a sip at a time from my mug, cream, the dregs reheated, the last sip has three granules in it and I can swallow past them, ignore the grit of my life, or I can bite down into the bitter. I reheated it in the microwave and the cup didn't get too hot, nor did the coffee have swirls of too-cool. The day wasn't bright enough to call me to move yet. The keyboard made me want to clack clack. I didn't want to share the disgust of my nights, dreadful fits of near-strangers entering my dreams, trying to pry their way into today's storyline. By night when I give up the blanks and fall to sleep, I'm occasionally stabby with self-destruction. It's not that I want to hurt myself, exactly, as much as I want the oily black guck of the day and all that has gotten on my soul by then out, off, drained, emptied. The muck= the story of a jogger at
I ski, teach, parent, write, read, swim, adventure. I get lost in my own mind, chewing on words and images. Sometimes something good comes out.