Archive for October, 2012

Humor Columnist for The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review

Update: I have not been writing here as much, because since July I have been writing weekly humor columns for the Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review. Check out the website, as well as my columns! They are posted every Monday morning in the Salon feature.

http://thedoctortjeckleburgreview.com

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Mornings in the Quiet of Cripple Creek

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Stomach flat, filled with the hollow of the morning. The coffee pot churns. I remove the knit hat from my head that causes too much warmth. My body slightly sweats, my eyes bring forth water to even out the overnight dryness. The yawns continue. This is the space of waking up.

 

I sit on the couch with a pillow in my lap and my notebook resting on top of it. With my palms I wipe away the water from my eyes, but the yawns continue, my eyes squeezing out more water with each yawp. My legs rest on the couch—one curled underneath me, one straight out. And I feel and see the blue, green, gray and black striped socks that stretch up to my knees. “Sock Guy” is embroidered on the toes in cursive lettering. The pillow is as blue as my sweater, though closer in hue to my pajama pants. I know my right foot will fall asleep soon.

 

There is a white knit blanket rumpled on the couch to my right. I remember how I spilled red wine on that blanket six years ago when I was here for a visit. That was when I was still drinking. I cannot find the stain now. On the blue and green striped couch I discover long blonde hairs left behind from a past lover who used to come here with me. I swish some coffee and cream in my mouth and down my throat, and think of the time when I came out here with her and started writing a novel.

 

Now I am writing and memoir. And like my writing projects, I have also changed lovers. The she turning into a him, a man with his own long dirty-blonde hair. He sits in one of the chairs of the dining room table all day long and reads articles about politics. He sits in the chair across from where she used to sit. Both lovers drew the white curtains closed on their first day here so they could better see the screen of their computers. The view of a flashing screen preferred over the window full of mountains.

 

Across the room from me is a black leather chair. I’m thinking of the time when friends came up here with me one March about ten years ago. How I have a picture of my best friend lounging in that chair and reading. She does not like to read. But in the space of this quiet cabin there is nothing else to do.

 

I return outside to the deck, placing my knit hat on my head, and dressing myself in my winter jacket, too. It is not winter yet, though the early mornings say otherwise. The full moon is still out during this 7am hour, and I smoke my cigarette looking up at it. I am finding my own things to do here.

 

There is such a silence, one that at times feels deafening, crashing into my skull, my brain that at times feels lost in such solitude.

 

I return inside to be surrounded by a different scenery.

 

There is an obvious silence to seclusion. There is a stillness one must learn how to settle with. In a large city with so many distractions, I found my mind in an easier place in which to be able to concentrate. Now, with nothing distracting me, the concentration is hard, the mind wandering off to the spaces that fill the air. Their silence. The way the pink clouds crawl across the blue sky, the morning sun. The way each piece of furniture in this living room feels old and tired, their bodies left unmoved since they first arrived in 1971.

 

And so I distract myself with the lack of distractions around me. Check email. Troll around Facebook. Go outside to smoke a cigarette and drink coffee and read poetry. As if all of this will bring me back into my brain.

 

There is a poem hidden somewhere in here, one that crawls between the spaces of each word. A secret code I am trying to crack. As where “slight caesura” has slowly become my favorite phrase. Between each letter this is a stanza waiting to break through. A poem wanting to be heard, if only I can find the breath to say it. Muster up the insight in order to see it.

 

But these are my words I offer into the day during in this quiet morning: stay present in each moment, do not let the blankenss of the coming day permeate into my brain. Time will be filled, and I cannot make the world move any faster into the moment when I will have to move my body into the space of the city. How I yearn for something else to do.

 

So for now I soak into the silence, the stillness of the air, and find my way of living in the quiet mountains up here.

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