These generally get done on Sundays. Today, I recognize, is not a Sunday.
But, you know, what is time anyway, right? You could be reading this on any day of the week. Maybe weeks no longer exist in your timeline.
It's early. My brain is a little fuzzy.
I got into a conversation with someone the other day about the odd state that the brain gets into just after waking up, but before waking up. There's a moment (again, what is time, what is a moment? Maybe a second, maybe three weeks, hard to say) when my mind is conscious of existing in the world in a waking state. I'm able to reflect upon things that are happening as they happen. I can't react to them, though.
Or maybe I can, but I don't. In that liminal place it's difficult to tell the difference between can and do.
Sometimes that state lasts for a long time. This morning it's lasted about two hours. I'm up, I'm awake--in a manner of speaking--and I'm writing. But my brain is still more concerned with the surreal than the real.
I did some free writing in this state. Want to see?
Under the bog of green-yellow fireflies and roses, blinking eyes glare. Voices hiss. A pool forms, limpid, fresh, hot. Bare feet have no place here.
Wear boots. Wear galoshes. Hell, wear waders.
Fourteen dead men guard the path in pairs. Two will ask what you've done with the knife. Four will challenge you to unarmed combat. The six in the middle weep and weep and weep. There is no consoling them. Don't try. The last two wait.
Faceted flakes of snow fall freely from the eyes of one. They are not tears. He has blizzards in his soul, if he has a soul. Do you?
Giant roots obscure the face of the fourteenth man. Does he cry or laugh? Does he have eyes, a mouth, a face at all? It doesn't matter. He is the last of the fourteen, and you have worn waders. He lets you pass.
Where will you go? The path forks. To the left, it winds up a pleasant hill, full of music and light and peace. To the right, darkness, rocks, poison.
Ha ha ha. Who chooses peace?
I'm waking up. My critical brain has engaged. Most of that looks dreadful to me. There's a line or two that I can, perhaps, recycle into something else. But good lord, the tense shifting. The purple quality. The overwrought self-importance.
It's important to set the critic aside sometimes. I guess that's why I get up early to write. The liminal space. The place where I can be both asleep and awake, where I can act without reacting.