The Tamborine Vs. The Screwdriver

Every morning, if I'm not out of bed, my husband will leave me a sweet note.

The idea is, I don't see it until he's darted off to work and I am sitting down with the morning coffee.
I anticipate this little love-confection. Later in the morning, a message will come by the phone with still more morning greetings and wishes.

We plan dates and get excited for every month that passes leading up to the next. I never thought I would get here, and it has a very grown-up feeling to it. I think too that my dear husband also did not believe he would find himself again in a place where a(nother) marriage seemed like a good idea. I might not either if I got financially burned so badly by a previous partner's poor planning or ill-favored actions.

Back to the rainy bliss of Friday. A pale coffee and a still unmade bed. Jacket off my shoulders in the dark comedy of my apartment. All my stuff and my husband's stuff is here. And the big trucks go past, reminding me of where I grew up. Also that place is no here, but only that here and there have a few things in common.

Music is always good in that it takes the place of drugs.

I have no one in particular to write to at the moment. I have only to admit that I have exhausted all possibilities so new ones may now arise. Only the young-muse-dog/god will intuit when he is fit to receive me, and I him, if you know what I mean...

Meantime, the coffee is kicking in, and the temperature is dropping and I just checked the word of the day: Jeopardy. Sounds like a good start to a nervous condition.

Daydreams will always have the better symphonies, and occasionally you can get at them a little with your pen. The pen is mightier, after all. In this case the pen takes the form of the hyper and unmistakable staccato of the Olympia DeLuxe German-made typing machine. My own printing press of gutless glory.

I will wear a new dress tonight. There is no pressure to worry about tomorrow. It will arrive with all its peasant error like a black hair growing indecently from the nipple.

I do press myself in relief against the fear of being uprooted by the sandy soils of a soft life. Too many pillows and stubbornly beautiful conveniences. And permissions to engage in so much bad grammar- like an editing demiurge, threatening to become self-aware and ruin my carefully preserved bad batch of poems.

At the moment, the tamborine and the screwdriver are equally silent. The genius caffeine is causing my armpits to release a pleasant amount of distress due to elevated heart rates and nothing yet to sustain the belly. The stalwart soap-boat of the belly. Churning numb, incautious acids. Breeding a bile-wracked party of styleless core-driven sugar-grasping jeremiad.

Whatever, anyway... we are a happy couple of lucky maps.

Last night I had a dream that certainly came out of skydiving. It was a week that flew by and now it's Friday and I am typing for something to do. Perhaps just to wake me up a little and give me a sense of accomplishment.

The day instructs us all to be slaves to the waking life. We are fortunate enough to get to decide exactly what part of that life we are slaves to.

It's going to rain all day, and I sit here half-naked and expecting my period. Always better to get it than to not. The new meditation is leaving me giddy with inaction. From ‘Oblique Strategies’: "Do nothing for as long as possible." Causing the recall that, when it is time to finally take action, this prolonged and self-enforced care to think for a drawn-out possible will mean for your action to have that much more intent than ever before.