my husband, after many tries, got me out of bed. mostly so many tries because he realized that sleeping in bed is more reasonable than waking in bed.
singing makes me feel free! i can remember being in choir in middle school; it was during the cold season, so we were a barebones crew. our teacher/conductor put a boombox recording us in an attempt at self-critique. when she played the tape back to us, i asked a friend whose loud voice that was. he gave me a "you're-joking-not-stupid-right?" look and replied that it was mine. i had no idea i was even audible, much less recognizable.
as i laid in bed, it occurred to me to write a long form waka "ballad": one dedicated to each conquest.
i read some of tony's short stories and poems last night. i don't know what counts as poetry these days. it parallels postmodern art; mostly whimsical indulgence lacking any claim to its rich heritage.
i'm sure it's not my place to critisize any art.
i've revived my morning ritual of tea. i never even cracked that book which jessie had leant me, but as i rinsed out my cast iron teapot, varying in purple hue, measured out tea, set the alarm, the reassurance that i only find brewing a pot of tea washed over me.
my mind hopskotches across all those i crucified to my impulsiveness. i'm not sure how i feel towards them, not guilt, exactly, not shame, more like indebtedness. i think i took more than they had to give. i'm also not sure what i could give them, what token i could sacrifice to these idols of my history.
i also have not taken a blood thinner (e.g. caffeine) since i idiotically sliced open my hand.