It's early. I woke up at five-thirty, contentedly rested, and allowed myself to gradually uncoil from the rules and truthes of dreaming.
I got up and ran to the bathroom, where I urinated lavishly for several minutes. We have a disability toilet with a built-in bidet, designed to automatically begin its dark work when enough weight is on the toilet set. The weight sensor has been off lately. Groggy, thoughts broiling with the consequences of dark, mystifying dreams, I noticed the bidet nozzle snake out, lingering threateningly, then retract. My dream-fugue melted, I closed both lids and washed my hands.
I looked out of the window downstairs, and it was dark. I moved through to our central room, the room with two desks in it and all the kitty furniture and the book case. I love my book case. My dad made it before his stroke and he did a great job of leaving out rough edges and bits that look shabby. It fits most books on most shelves; great bookshelf.
It's too early to turn on either of the lights, so I turned on my computer. I used to do it with my big toe, but this new computer has a cool console thingy at the top, much like a dashboard. I stood around and remembered when I used to to Tai Chi, every morning. I couldn't remember if I'd been just trying to prove something, or if it really worked, but it was relaxing, and empowering.
I tried to remember the night before. I was waiting patiently for an email, Lisa got home, I was tired. When my computer finished booting, I sat down. The user accounts had changed, so I sort that out. The ambience in my skull is nice now, happy and cogitative.
I like my brain. I think it isn't as quick or as sharp as other brains, but that it has its own qualities that impress and endear. I go through life in a dream, but lately it's one of those dreams that you're totally steering. My life isn't bad, it's had some rough patches, but now things are looking up.
Lisa has left the headphones plugged in; I had collapsed at 9:00pm the night before, and she doubtless spent an hour or two sniping on 2fort, setting up sentry farms, or fielding cautious experiments with the spy, her only weak character. I sleep through lots of noise, so she didn't need to use headphones, but it's a nice gesture. Now, as I plan to do... who knows? I'll need these headphones too.
So I put them on, and asked myself what I wanted to listen to. I experiment with some podcasts, but while I love the idea of pocket radio, while I truly want to hear what these various lovely people think about and talk about, I have trouble accessing podcasts. I'm never sure what to do with myself.
So I explore the media library - a stunted thing, a shadow of the library on my neglected, pre-ubisoft computer - and I find some Billie Holiday. Right, let's go.
I sit and open up OpenOffice.org. I write some more for this piece:
In an empty room, because empty rooms are easy to imagine, sitting on a plain wooden chair, also fairly self explanatory, is a man. A snag; you may imagine any number of men, as diverse and contrasting as colours in the spectrum.
Maybe the lone image of a man is repulsive to you. This man is not those horrible men who put those preconceptions there, of course. He is the man that he is. If it helps, he considers himself a boy, sometimes, although all men do.
This is not a man to be disliked on the basis of his personality. Picture him; I know you have already, so I shall invite you, make it all official. He's anything you like; craggy, moisturised, bony, rounded, gorgeous, hideous. Nothing I can do to shake that now.
The man is thinking about his life, and the ones he has loved, and the way he has loved them. He is tapping his foot absent-mindedly. He is taking the time to remember the wonderful places he hasn't visited in a while. He is thinking of his family, whether that be a Wife and Children, or a Mother and Father, or both. He misses them. They miss him.
That is enough, I think. He is ready for his journey; a person perfectly formed in your mind, sitting in a wooden chair, in an empty room, in an orange jumpsuit. Didn't I mention that?
The lights go out. The clasps around his wrists and ankles snap open. He darts his limbs aside, and the lights return; the clasps snap shut. His wrists and ankles are not in them.
He waits for the guard.
...and then abandon it. My dilemma is back. I write a little more for a piece I'm composing for Chapmans, but my focus is wandering. I'm hungry, and missing Lisa just a little, and my eyes hurt.
I'm sitting looking out of the window, now, and the clouds have boiled over. Daylight is here. I worry that I'm doing anything unwittingly self-destructive. I worry that my head isn't as clear as it was two days ago. I grind my teeth, hating that for two whole days I've too tired to think and too busy to sleep, except to collapse for six hours.
I've made a cup of tea. I'm listening to some music I don't like. I turn it off. I raise my cup. I increasingly believe that all problems stem from improper communication and understanding. A toast: here's to perfect communication, leading to perfect understanding.
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