A gamechanger

I'm going to talk to you about water, since it is a clear and straightforward thing and right now I most definitely do not feel clear and straightforward. My head is all mushy with things that I can't bring myself to think about and I can't bring myself to dismiss.

So back to water: I unilaterally decided today to drink my water from a wide-mouthed 24-oz mason jar. First, I filled the jar with water from the Brita in the refrigerator. Then, I drank it. It tasted colder and cleaner than it does from a regular glass. Afterward, I got fancy, then fancier. I put ice in the jar, and a bunch of slices from a cucumber that I'd gotten at a roadside stand near our house, and also a bunch of slices of lemon. I again filled the jar with water. It tasted amazing. I felt the thirst leaving my body in a brand new way. Being "quenched" is generally so temporary, but this felt permanent, complete. It was as though my thirst evaporated, which is an interesting simile when you pick it apart! And you can eat the cucumber, cold and wet, when you're done! This evening, after I dumped out the lemon slices and rinsed out my jar, I again put some ice in it, and then added a handful of pitted cherries, before filling it yet again with water. Don't even worry about it--it was incredible.

I don't often make suggestions on this blog but I would definitely recommend drinking your water from a large mason jar. You will probably end up drinking more water than you usually do. You will also probably end up adding things to it, because that is the nature of the jar.

Back

We got home yesterday, early evening. I sat at my computer for a lot of hours and did work for money and felt devoid of all art. When I went to bed, late, I felt emptied out and very light. Today I walked around my house a lot and did more work for money and stayed in my pajamas until around 4. In the morning I ate coffee and raisin bran and in the afternoon, a small sandwich. There wasn't a lot in the refrigerator. I received a number of spontaneous hugs from Beatrice and some soggy cheese crumbles on the shoulder where she decided to kiss me, long and with all of her might. Eventually I took a shower and put on a clean shirt and skirt that I had unpacked before. I tucked the shirt carefully into the skirt. All of us went to the grocery store and made a fair amount of noise, calling to each other from an aisle away and running fast with the cart while Beatrice sang out wheeee. She also pointed to a box of Mucinex that featured an anthropomorphic ball of phlegm riding a roaring wave of Mucinex with a helpless look on its face, and she said wheeee. Of the many things she now understands, I might be proudest of wheeee.

We came home and I made an unlikely dinner of Vegan Meatloaf, which means there was no meat in it, but lentils instead. It was delicious. Absolutely fucking delicious, for real.

The rain has been coming and going and feels more sideways than up and down. I stood on the porch for a while and looked at the lightning and thought about Eco's delineation of delectatio morosa in terms of the first stirrings of a story. The first stirrings of a story are this wonderful foreplay, while I wait wait wait to write it, waylaying the messy climax of actually writing it, just thrumming with this exhilarating could could could.

Wheeee.

Away

I'm in the Florida panhandle. Oil has washed up close to where we are, but so far, these beaches remain open. I feel them trembling. Their turn will come. We played in the waves the other day and I felt covered in a slick film of sorrow when I got out.

I go to a Starbucks every day for a couple of hours and do some freelance work. I swim in the many pools that are here. Afterward, I feel hungry. At night, I feel tired. I'm not thinking about writing too much, and when I do, it's in a hypothetical, faraway kind of way.

My body has given itself to this thing called vacation, which is a very feeble but sweet attempt that humans have devised to fight the clock, fight the passage of ordinary time, to create a different version of time, to live outside of themselves and their wearying lives. It works until it doesn't.

I'm having a good time. Today I feel poked by a persistent sadness whose finger I can't grasp long enough to twist. Too oily, maybe.

The 5 Stages Of Waking Up Before 6am With Beatrice

1. Denial: That's not her calling me. That's a voice inside the dream that I'm having. The dream has only just begun. Also, if I can't see her, she must not be awake.

2. Anger: I just went to sleep! I'm tired! Why can't she understand that I stayed up very late doing suspicious and/or minimally useful things? Why does she make me suffer?

3. Bargaining: Oh my god, if she rolls over and goes back to sleep I will buy her a pony. I will go to sleep earlier and wake up at 4:30 every morning to make her biscuits from scratch. I will buy her a pony.

4. Depression: This is going to be the worst day ever. Tomorrow will be, too. I never ask for anything from anybody and all I want to do is lay here. I'm not hurting anyone. I don't even want money or candy. Everything in my life is small and sad.

5. Acceptance: When I take her from her crib she is warm and soft and bready. She fits herself into me. I am tired, but I like this better than not-this.

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Thankfully, she doesn't often wake up this early.

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It'd be remiss not to mention one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets.