The silence of early morning, indeed. Write in the early morning before the critic is fully awake. Edit in the evening when the entire world is getting on her last nerve. But that's just my process. But early mornings before the phone and email starts up - best time of day. 5 am if I can. 6 at the latest.
The witching hours are my favorite time of day. I used to come home around 2 AM from gigs. When it was a good performance, I couldn’t sleep for hours. I dreamt up entire lives for the fans at that evening’s show.
The lonely man that sat at the corner of the bar and left beautiful reviews on our website after every show he attended, he went home to a cat that slept in his wife’s chair when he wasn’t there. She died from breast cancer two years before, and though the upholstery was becoming faded and threadbare, he couldn’t bear to throw it out. One night he cried when I sang Blue Bayou, and I imagined he would go home to the life I dreamt up for him, sit in his wife’s chair, bury his nose in the head and armrests, and search for a remnant of her perfume, letting the dam finish bursting after it cracked as I sang, “oh, that boy of mine by my side, the silver moon and the evening tide…”
The couple that came to at least half of our shows in Northeast Texas and made non-dancing songs into dancing songs, they had twins that recently left for college. They lived on Cross Lake and welcomed most sunsets with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Condensation beading and trickling down the bowl while they laughed and held hands, still very much in love after 23 years. You could tell they were by the way they danced. Dancing is fun and artistic and athletic, but they made it look like making love.
Who knows if they even had children… Or how long they had been together. But I could tell they were deeply head-over-heels for each other, and their dancing was done by bodies that could predict the other’s movement with a slight twitch of a stabilizer muscle. They moved like they knew each other inside and out.
Anyway, those witching hours… they are my favorite. Probably part of why I often wake around that time so often. I think I just realized I should get up and write instead of tossing and turning.
There are also doors that slam shut behind you permanently stopping you from ever returning. Thankfully, the door to my morning coffee is never slammed shut. I enjoy my first cup of coffee in the morning. I smells like victory.
“Every once in a while. Courage.” Put a lump in my throat.
A friend of mine gave me two large globe red wine glasses for Christmas once. The lady who was demonstrating them was playing sounds with various levels of liquid in the crystal, and it made him think of me. He also complimented my hair at his Christmas party, so on the way home, my ex-boyfriend broke the glasses and jammed a piece into my arm. Then he held the stem with a jagged piece of globe at my throat, and I pressed myself against the window of his truck. It was raining and cold and I remember thinking I was going to die with a cold cheek and nose.
Your last paragraph had me wanting to hurt someone for little Roman. All the doors that have to be removed from the hinges to confront the ugliness kept in those rooms so that we can care for the versions of us that used to be trapped behind them… the courage it requires and the strength we must summon. To integrate all of it into the people we are striving to be. We are all marvels. Miracles.
The silence of early morning, indeed. Write in the early morning before the critic is fully awake. Edit in the evening when the entire world is getting on her last nerve. But that's just my process. But early mornings before the phone and email starts up - best time of day. 5 am if I can. 6 at the latest.
You know I can’t do them early mornings ;)
😂 I know. Dragging your sorry butt out of bed at 7 am. Wtf.
The witching hours are my favorite time of day. I used to come home around 2 AM from gigs. When it was a good performance, I couldn’t sleep for hours. I dreamt up entire lives for the fans at that evening’s show.
The lonely man that sat at the corner of the bar and left beautiful reviews on our website after every show he attended, he went home to a cat that slept in his wife’s chair when he wasn’t there. She died from breast cancer two years before, and though the upholstery was becoming faded and threadbare, he couldn’t bear to throw it out. One night he cried when I sang Blue Bayou, and I imagined he would go home to the life I dreamt up for him, sit in his wife’s chair, bury his nose in the head and armrests, and search for a remnant of her perfume, letting the dam finish bursting after it cracked as I sang, “oh, that boy of mine by my side, the silver moon and the evening tide…”
The couple that came to at least half of our shows in Northeast Texas and made non-dancing songs into dancing songs, they had twins that recently left for college. They lived on Cross Lake and welcomed most sunsets with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Condensation beading and trickling down the bowl while they laughed and held hands, still very much in love after 23 years. You could tell they were by the way they danced. Dancing is fun and artistic and athletic, but they made it look like making love.
Who knows if they even had children… Or how long they had been together. But I could tell they were deeply head-over-heels for each other, and their dancing was done by bodies that could predict the other’s movement with a slight twitch of a stabilizer muscle. They moved like they knew each other inside and out.
Anyway, those witching hours… they are my favorite. Probably part of why I often wake around that time so often. I think I just realized I should get up and write instead of tossing and turning.
"We are here only to go home" captures the feeling of being in work or school on a snowy day so perfectly.
"Question marks and clipped wings..." beautiful.
There are also doors that slam shut behind you permanently stopping you from ever returning. Thankfully, the door to my morning coffee is never slammed shut. I enjoy my first cup of coffee in the morning. I smells like victory.
Me toooooo! Dark as hell. 5 am daily!
“Every once in a while. Courage.” Put a lump in my throat.
A friend of mine gave me two large globe red wine glasses for Christmas once. The lady who was demonstrating them was playing sounds with various levels of liquid in the crystal, and it made him think of me. He also complimented my hair at his Christmas party, so on the way home, my ex-boyfriend broke the glasses and jammed a piece into my arm. Then he held the stem with a jagged piece of globe at my throat, and I pressed myself against the window of his truck. It was raining and cold and I remember thinking I was going to die with a cold cheek and nose.
Your last paragraph had me wanting to hurt someone for little Roman. All the doors that have to be removed from the hinges to confront the ugliness kept in those rooms so that we can care for the versions of us that used to be trapped behind them… the courage it requires and the strength we must summon. To integrate all of it into the people we are striving to be. We are all marvels. Miracles.
As always, Roman. Gorgeous, moving work.