6am ritual

Three weeks in a row and I've managed to wake my tired ass up at 6am to spend an hour writing with a hot cup of green tea. As someone who, until about four years ago, slept until 2pm on my weekends, and who outright refused to take any classes in college before noon, this was a sharp departure.

I thought I'd make it one day, even amidst the distraction-free timespace.

Three weeks! I love it.

This morning I made it halfway through the third part of a story entitled A Pendulum Between, the second part of which will be workshop-ed tonight in the monthly Creative Salon I run with Eric Myers.

Here's the beginning of part 3:

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Stillness, first.

Total.

Non-stillness, next. Bits usually ignored:

- Carpet. Dark red. Outlining my hand. Left hand. Fingers. Suspended. Fibers, individual. Hundreds.
- Thirst. Tongue, dry. Aftertaste. Tomato sauce. Bad tomato sauce.
- Flit, flit, flit. Attack and decay. Bristles, also individual. Together, a brush. A brush on porcelain. Already polished porcelain.
- A notion. A notion of a higher order. Still versus non-still.
- A voice. Human. Me & not me. The voice spiraling, repeating. A round. shortsightednessplushopeequalsdangerousness- shortsightednessplushopeequalsdangerousness-heartbreakandtriumphsweetheartheartbreakandtriumph. Emily. Bathtub.
- Annie. She was right. I had trouble listening. Attending. To the little things – the ones she cared about. A new notion, of a higher order.
- Owwwwwwwwwwww my head!

Oh, my head, on the floor, oh nonononono. Something hard hit my head, the huge shadow, and oh nononono, Emily, her skin atop. Did I? Did we? No, not quite. Right? Not enough. Enough? Not enough. But yes, it’ll still be a lie. Oh, Annie, what was I doing here? Out, yes, out. Now. Home. What’s that sound? Oh, Annie, I’ve told one lie, what’s one more for you. For togetherness. Just a small lie, she’d never understand. And that’s fine. She doesn’t have to. I understand, and I understand I’m stupid, meek, and will never push her away again. To her. Get to her. What’s that sound? Up. Oh my fucking head, don’t touch it, no.

Shooshshooshshooshshoosh.
Shortsightednessplushopeequalsdangerousness-shortsightednessplushopeequalsdangerousness. Shooshshooshshooshshoosh heartbreakandtriumphsweetheartheartbreakandtriumph. shooshshooshshooshshoosh

I clawed my way towards the flitting bristles. A few wet drips moved past my eyebrow. Don’t check for bleeding. Don’t give it a reason to gush. My left arm throbbed from shoulder to fingertips. I lurched like a graceless sidewinder.

Halfway. Flip. Roll. Onto my back. The ceiling, pretty. Emily, atop, before. A long brown scarf, a featherweight frown. Nothing else. Fuck, Sparker, I’m so sorry. Am I sorry? Who had even hit me, a jealous Sparker, or the one playing demon to my dreams? Over. Back over, on the belly. Shoulder, ugh, stretch it a bit.

Shooshshooshshooshshoosh.

Whoomb, whoomb, whoomb, head pulsing with Emily’s flitting scrub brush.

“Emily?” Throat dry, try again.

“Emily?” Louder, proven by a deeper throb in the head.

“Heartbreak and triumph, heartbreak and triumph. Shortsightedness plus hope equals dangerousness, you know that,” intermingled with the bathroom’s shooshshooshshooshshoosh.

Sit up, just a little. Head off the carpet. I can’t believe he hit me. Okay, that worked.

Stand. Slow. Sloooow. Steady.

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Note to self: take a pic of the green tea bag, cuz goddamn that stuff is great.