I sense that I am slipping into that space between the wall and the airbed. Instinctually, I shift to the middle of the twin space. I look at the clock, because I have to look at it. I need to know what time it is. I need to get my bearings, do the math, calculate how long I've been asleep.
Let's see... one-thirty seven. . . I went to sleep. . . when? I recall looking at the clock when I went to sleep, trying to memorize the numbers, so that I could do these calculations when I wake up. . . it was almost two? Three? Four? I hate when I go to sleep when it's a time that end in :57 or :59, because I tend to remember that part, and not the primary number--of what hour it is. Then I don't know. It could be anywhere within three hours. I think it was two fifty-something, though. That means I've been asleep-- um. . . longer than normal. I need to get to work on the book.
And my back is killing me. The muscles are taut and sore. From mowing yesterday. I look at the book at my bedside. Wish I could have read more of it before I nodded off. I smell the ashtray and wish I had emptied it the night before. But at least I made myself get up, close the window and brush my teeth. Many times I go to sleep with the window open. I should stop smoking, I think, for the hundredth time.
I feel a snippet of the dream. I assume the one I had just been having-- remnants of an object. They're important in order to bring back the rest of the dream. . . but the harder I try to concentrate, the more they slip away. I hear a dog barking, and the image that was materializing just zips away. Gone forever, I know. I wonder if Justice is awake yet. Whenever i think of her, i think of that word Sneebs. She uses it interchangeable for many things. It can be an endearment: "Hey, Sneebs." It can be a greeting, "Sneebs!" It can even be a commentary on the softness of a blanket..."Oooo, sneeeebs." It can be a temporary replacement word when she can't think of the right one. "I was trying to get the thing out of the..the...sneebs." She has a language all her own. I am endeared by that.
Then I'm aware of my bladder. So I get up and go pee, and look down at the trash can. I need to empty that. And there's a hair on the bathroom floor. I hate that.
I rinse out the uglies that have taken up residence in my mouth with the generic antiseptic mouthwash, and think about how good the coffee will taste. But I'm afraid the mouthwash might spoil it. I'm always afraid the mouthwash might spoil it. But then, that leads to poor dental hygiene--to avoid rinsing.
In my office, I peek in the coffee grinder and know that there's not enough for six cups. I have to grind more. I have to wince, and allow my ears to be accosted by the sound of grinding beans. But it smells good, so maybe that's why I can stand it.
I notice the candle that has burned away and want to light it but my lighter is too big to fit into the glass. I go through the house looking for matches, or something that will light it. I find a taper candle and use that, adding the tall candleholder to my desk--it doesn't have glass around it so I can light it with anything. Maybe it will be tall enough so that the cats won't catch their tails on fire. Justice is always afraid of that. But they could knock this one over. But it'll probably go out. So it's probably okay.
I go fill the carafe, pour it into the coffeemaker, dump the contents of yesterday's filter in the trash over the old cigarette butts (thank god, or the trash would smell. . . so the coffee grounds serve a purpose, even when spent). I put a new filter in the basket and measure out three scoops, counting two, four, six. I'm glad nothing distracted me, because I know if there had been any sound, I would lose count, and I would have to pour the contents of the filter back into the grinder and start again. I switch the coffee maker on, and sit down, leaning to look at the cable modem, see if it's online yet. I recall how it was offline for many hours yesterday, and I didn't get to check the tracking on my package. It's online.
I open the browser and check mail, seeing that Shelia has written me back so I have to open that first. I read her mail and write a response. My hands hurt, so I put topical analgesic on them, and don my fingerless gloves that make me look like a street person.
I check in with Jenfu, read her recent stuff and wish I could write like that. I print out some of her stuff and resolve to study it.
Do I need to pay any bills? Am i forgetting something? Is the mail here? I go check the mail. Nothing, and return to my desk.
The candle has dripped onto the desk. Oh well. It's just wax. But I realize the kitties could have gotten into it while i was gone. Stupid. I should not do that. But I like candles so much and it helps deodorize the room.
Then I see that I need to take some Tylenol and my synthroid and my vitamins. That means I need something on my stomach.
I go to the kitchen, on the way telling myself I should put that ironing board up and take out the trash. I notice that the sink is full of dirty dishes again. How did that happen? The mess disturbs me and I have an overwhelming urge to clean but I just don't feel like it. I stare into the cabinets, the fridge. Nothing simple. I decide on applesauce. I pour it in a coffee mug and grab a spoon, then put the spoon back and get a plastic one, because I can't stand the thought of hearing that metal scraping against the cup. I let the dog out and in, glaring at the dirty dishes again. . . the dirty countertop. . . the floor needs to be swept and mopped, too. . . I give Giz fresh food and water. I return to my office with my applesauce and a beef jerky strip.
At my desk, I take that first sip of coffee. Ahhhh. I have trouble opening the jerky package, mad at the soreness of my fingers, the way they feel swollen and fat. I use scissors to open it instead.
Giz is staring at me hopefully.
I check the tracking on the package, and think about how I need to research this brain thing of mine-- why I don't remember my dreams anymore. I do some searching in google, and peruse a few pages, signing up as a test-subject for some program they'll email me.
My coffee has gotten cold before I had a chance to finish it so I put it on the coffee maker warming plate. Maybe I should move all the coffee stuff to the kitchen again, I think.
My back hurts.
Justice comes to the door, saying "Sneebs."
