Monday, March 15, 2004



I'm clawing through my clothes drawer in search of that concussive alarm clock. I know its source. It's coming from the tag of a pink tank with spaghetti straps.

All you have to do is squeeze it, squeeze the alarm. From the other room, Adam is skeptical. That's not it, he says. It is it, I say, and I squeeze.

I'm getting furious now, so I snatch up a scissors. I cut out the tiny alarm, but still it bleats on. So I snip it into crumbs, slivers, confetti. Angry now, it slaps our temples with its cries.

Adam shuts off the real alarm clock, which sits in the hallway. I mumble my apologies, my explanations, and then fall back into the muddle of feather comforter and kitty cats.

It's these morning fumes, these deadly eddies of a.m. dreams. No flickering phantasmagorias of nighttime sleep. These morning reveries are high-tech simulations, with no more absurdity than much of what is seen in daytime hours. Pinned just beneath the surface of waking, it's easy to forget whether or not one has the underwater breath.

Sunday, March 14, 2004

Brown Sugar Brain

One brilliant connection drowned in distraction. One rare sense of flow sent tumbling to grush. A sack of sawdust. Stranger cat. I retreat to the red table.

Monday, March 01, 2004

Scarlet Letter

The back room, with all the bookcases, is "Daisy Heart." I painted it, and our "Primavera" bedroom, with energies stoked by a throb of rage at the sorry woman who sold us this house.

Now I'm painting the space that will become my office, and the names of the paint chips are apt to throw me. Will my new desk be "Scarlet Letter" or "Tulip Time"? Will the existing brown walls ("Dirty Depression" in my mind) need priming before officially going "Cerulean?" And what about the rest of the upstairs? Will it be "Picture Perfect," "Yellow Grass," or "Season's Promise"? I'm partial to the latter, although it's a bit bright. "Picture Perfect" should probably be my choice, but its name sounds too smugly obedient for what I want this room to be.

Today I took a giant step. (It was either that or end it all.) It's better to be moving, so I don't even mind the ten thousand staples I'll soon have to pluck from my study floor. "Underneath the cobblestones, the beach." Underneath this hateful carpet, stage one of a new world.