without glasses, the red numbers on the digital clock are reduced to spots and lines. the legs hang from one side of the bed, the knees building momentum. 9:15 is sleeping in. Sleeping in on a Monday morning in November is wasteful.
a slight disorientation sends the body into motion: the hands rubbing and mashing swollen areas about the eyes, eyes that are momentarily blind from a thin mornings brightness; the sore and constantly falling arches complain to the heals that are really bruises wrapped in veins and tissue and skin.
light, which is to say daylight, is upon everything like a heavy stain a modest ghost or the touch of a thief. It is a brightness that comes from nowhere and everywhere. The sun is not a pinpoint fixture in a blue sky today but an illumination from behind a clean-linen heaven.
indistinct shapes against the floors and walls create the sensation of a concrete world about to be rubbed out--it is a temporary highlight of a time.
the weight and sophistication of a borrowed camera, positioned on the desk, has subdued appeal. its viewfinder raised to the eye yields the million details of a desk lamp, a hand towel, or the glass and dishes near the sink.
food, that is to say breakfast, is made when the hunger in the body becomes pronounced and echoing inside a mind of darkened tunnels.
a toasted chicken salad sandwich with melting cheese and no crust is consumed without alarm or celebration. The warmth of the meal inspires action, movement and a change in habit--
11:19 - Monday, Nov. 07, 2005
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