This afternoon I felt still, quiet. Lonely, pretty, like singing. Abstractly emotional, on the edge of something. I think too much. Jeff Buckley’s “Morning Theft” is lush and beautiful.
In the car on the way home from the airport, I began a list, organizing myself. Sundays are for taking stock, returning to wakefulness, asking questions that don’t need immediate answers.
(which, by the very act of this writing, shall no longer go unremarked-upon, at least not by me):
Malty chocolate malts
Bare feet on warm pavement
Being healthy and free from pain
Being taken care of
Cool air from the open window while you sleep
Eating food made for you by someone you love
“Perhaps Love,” Placido Domingo’s 1981 duet with John Denver*
Kissing a man who has been eating cold applesauce
Kissing a man who has been smoking a cigarette and eating a sugar cube**
Friends, I hope you are list-makers too.
Nine days remain until my 26th birthday. That is so much closer to 30 than 25. I’ve got to get busy living.
*Oh Jesus, I’ve blown my cover. This is the sound of my childhood. It’s the house on Westchester, that interminable road trip west to La Jolla when I was six or so, a lullaby.
**It should be noted that this erotic and oddly tasty experience
is best left to us non-smokers. And smoking should not be
encouraged. No cigarette shall cross these lips.