(Saturday) Morning Morgantown

Nancy Flynn Arts & Culture, Music, Stream of Consciousness Archive

Joni Mitchell, vintage, the old stuff, stuff of my untoward youth, on the CD player, loud, so I can hear it over the water running in the shower I am about to take.

I can sit here and think I’ve done nothing since waking but, in addition to writing in my morning pages book and on the blogs, I made and drank Illy coffee and fed the cats. I also stripped the bed. Shook cat hair out of down comforter. Put new, cotton sheets on the bed. Swapped patchwork quilts so that the Wedding Ring quilt with green patches in it that matches the green sheet is now on the bed—Martha Stewart would be proud. Folded the comforter and aligned at the foot of the bed so Balthazar can have his sleeping throne, thick and plump, while I’m gone. Swept those purple flowers I mentioned in the hummingbird section. Swept the tiled kitchen floor. Watered the dahlias and calendulas not on the irrigation. Talked to J. who called from outside the White House, yes THE White House, his first words: that slimeball liar is there inside…

I folded clothes in one laundry basket; two more to go. Carried dirty laundry downstairs and stuffed a load into the washing machine—waiting until post-shower to start that up. Emptied the de-humidifier even though it wasn’t yet full and set the time to go three hours on/three hours off to see what, if any, difference that makes.

I’ve also critiqued two poems for two of the others in my online Prose Poem class. Sat outside, sipping coffee in flannel PJs, making note of the way the air changes from warm to cool the second the cloud covers the glorious early morning sun. Watched water spilled from a terracotta saucer under the New Guinea impatiens and the way it beads up on the oiled surface of the red cedar deck. Cut through the web of a spider to sit on the striped deck chair; when the sun came back out, noted all the other webs and strands that in the slightest, most delicate way, are attempting—rather like the artist Christo—to wrap the deck. I sat in a chair who seat had fallen out two year ago and I tried to fix it, sew the canvas back together but alas, today, with my weight, the threads are breaking again.

Still to do before I go: unload dishwasher, deadhead flowers, see what’s ripe for the picking in the garden (chard? snow peas?) and make sure the irrigation has, indeed, been coming on out there. Clean and fill the second litter box. It’s now been airing out on the grass down by the garage door for at least a week. What else? I suppose find or eat some kind of lunch? make time to stop at Safeway to finally pick up J’s prescription? put the bill I wrote a check for into the mailbox and retrieve the newspaper which I’m sure will go unread except for the celebrity gossip in the Living section yet again today.

It’s interesting to go through the catalogue of what has happened in the past three hours. The voice inside my head is forever telling me I haven’t done enough. Usually enough is related to writing, but really, it can be about anything. But, for some people, my short morning might already be the sum total of their work for the day. And I’ve already gloried in a morning sun on a deck surrounded by tall trees and smells that make the morning seem like you’re out camping. And seen a hummingbird. Perhaps writing all this down will make the seven hours of exile at the co-op pass a little faster?

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