Monday, July 22, 2013

Monday Morning

And what a Monday morning it is, so far. There is always my slow awakening. My body is sore because the new mattress has not yet arrived and my neck is stiff, because even with the purchase of a pillow filled with crumbled latex, I apparently, in sleep, hold my head taut against the dreadful sleep apnea mask. My head is heavy. Since when was it not heavy upon awakening?
I begin to stretch and sigh. Multitudinous sighs coupled with 'oh, god'.
I am slow in the morning, never want to jump out of bed, am never invigorated by rest or ready for coffee. It takes some time before I stand upright. And when I do, I cup my hands to rub my knuckles in circles across my lower back, softening tight muscles. And I tend to sigh again. And again. Take a deep breath, if I remember.
Those creative, dream thoughts I chased during the first moments of awakening are fast fading. But amidst the sighs, the words are still dancing, making themselves into phrases and sentences. Oh, to get to my laptop before they vanish.
Earl sits at the kitchen table before a cereal bowl and says, "Every morning, you become a performance artist. And I get to watch."
Another sigh. Another, "oh, god". Not in response to his comment.
Standing at the stove watching three sausages fry, I am forming phrases and sentences in my mind. I also veer off to ponder paint and colors that might echo gusting clouds or flowers tossed by wind.
Then I remember the fabrics laid across my studio floor, waiting to be cut and sewn into skirts and patchwork for our fast approaching sojourn in Rome. Right. Sew, paint, write. There are far too many options here.
Then, in an instant, life's practicalities begin to intrude upon this day. I must focus on paying bills on-line; fewer paper bills are being delivered by the neighborhood mail carrier. My friend Sally patiently helped me set up on-line accounts, and now I have ever more passwords on my already too-long list.
Today, I must deposit funds to my checking account, deliver tax materials to my CPA, drop by the post office. This afternoon, I go to Beth's house so she can measure and assess the fit of the skirt on which I've labored unsuccessfully. It is a total wreck of a fit and I fear, must be torn apart, stitch by stitch. What happened? The skirt I made from the same pattern just a week ago is wonderful.
At the table, I eat my sausages and a peach and read aloud to Earl from "100 Places In Italy Every Woman Should Go" by Susan Van Allen.
Van Allen writes about Naples and I quote,"Do you think all the men here know how good looking they are...This is the place you could O.D. on infinite variations of bedroom eyes.  Top it off with delizioso pizza, sfogliatelle, and the spontaneous theater that bombards you as you wander through Naples' lively markets and you'll be won over by the vibrant soul of the city.
"The idea of stepping out of such fun into a place called the Museo Archeologico Nazionale may sound like a buzz kill, but get over it.  Even here, the Neapolitan ambiance - a mix of classic beauty, deep sensuality and naughty humor is inescapable...Women weren't officially allowed to enter this room (Il Bainetto Segreto) until the year 2000.  Men's logic was that the weaker sex shouldn't see displays of what they labeled pornography, dug up from Pompeii and Herculaneum in the eighteenth century. What did they think females would do if we saw such things as Pan screwing a she-goat...It's rare to be in a museum where jaw-dropping beauty, sex, and laughter blend together so well. But this is Naples, after all."
"Naples?" Earl says,"Oh, we'll be there for a day or two. I don't think we could possibly miss it."
Right.
"Did you finish that Donna Leon mystery last night?" I ask.
"No, but I got to a dramatic turning point."
At last, I am fully awake. I load the washing machine. Earl takes out the garage and recycling. Some of those marvelous words still hover in my head, waiting to be transcribed.
The sun shines, the garden is green. It is Monday morning. Except that is it almost noon. Onward to the practical duties of the day?  Or shall I write down more words?


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