when the cellos kick in
Today I am going to wake up when the cellos kick in.
I will lean out of bed just as far as is possible while still clutching the duvet round me for warmth and tug-flick at the curtains until a stream of light hits the bed and I can relax again, knowing I won’t drift back instantly into hazed myopic visions. I will lie there for a few minutes, tipping my head back to see if the sun is shining over the tops of the tenements and if the neighbours are undressing in their bedrooms. Eventually, I will come to comprehension and pull myself to the kitchen and bumble round the kettle cursing for my favourite mug, the chunky 50s diner “Try our coffee, It’s delicious” mug. Somehow the kettle will boil and the coffee will be stirred into boiling water and I will return to the bedroom with a steaming cup of caffeinated goodness. I will put on house clothes, baggy trousers and a vest, but paint my lips unnecessarily in red and kohl the eyes. Just for giggles, and looking in the mirror. At some point by now, I will have thwacked the stereo into playing, some guitar driven morning shouting music to sort me out. Perhaps if when I first part the curtains there are shafts of blue and the grey stone is reverberating in the light, I will leap out of bed then instead, with full volume tunes and spacked underwear dancing. But it’s unlikely. Always the coffee first, then all else follows. I will sit down at my computer eventually, check my emails and think about the day. Whether I will write or attend classes or buy courgettes and avocadoes or get high and draw beautiful women or start the day with wine just for experiments sake, just because Buckowski did. At this time, providing I have woken before lunch, everything will seem stretched out and endless through the long afternoon and evening, just waiting for something to happen. In all likelihood, nothing much will happen today. It’s a Monday, and Valentine’s day no less, not the kind of day where mountains get climbed, that’s for sure. But people are saved in different ways, and Mondays can be days of small victories. Sometimes. Perhaps the first chapter will get written, or I’ll find a Raymond Carver anthology in the bargain bin of the charity shop. Perhaps I’ll listen to this album on repeat until dinnertime, then watch the news and consider the evening’s plans. Who can tell? It’s enough to know that those thoughts are there, all enticed by the prospect of fruition. It’s enough to know that when the cellos kick in, I will wake up and there will be the day. Waiting.
I will lean out of bed just as far as is possible while still clutching the duvet round me for warmth and tug-flick at the curtains until a stream of light hits the bed and I can relax again, knowing I won’t drift back instantly into hazed myopic visions. I will lie there for a few minutes, tipping my head back to see if the sun is shining over the tops of the tenements and if the neighbours are undressing in their bedrooms. Eventually, I will come to comprehension and pull myself to the kitchen and bumble round the kettle cursing for my favourite mug, the chunky 50s diner “Try our coffee, It’s delicious” mug. Somehow the kettle will boil and the coffee will be stirred into boiling water and I will return to the bedroom with a steaming cup of caffeinated goodness. I will put on house clothes, baggy trousers and a vest, but paint my lips unnecessarily in red and kohl the eyes. Just for giggles, and looking in the mirror. At some point by now, I will have thwacked the stereo into playing, some guitar driven morning shouting music to sort me out. Perhaps if when I first part the curtains there are shafts of blue and the grey stone is reverberating in the light, I will leap out of bed then instead, with full volume tunes and spacked underwear dancing. But it’s unlikely. Always the coffee first, then all else follows. I will sit down at my computer eventually, check my emails and think about the day. Whether I will write or attend classes or buy courgettes and avocadoes or get high and draw beautiful women or start the day with wine just for experiments sake, just because Buckowski did. At this time, providing I have woken before lunch, everything will seem stretched out and endless through the long afternoon and evening, just waiting for something to happen. In all likelihood, nothing much will happen today. It’s a Monday, and Valentine’s day no less, not the kind of day where mountains get climbed, that’s for sure. But people are saved in different ways, and Mondays can be days of small victories. Sometimes. Perhaps the first chapter will get written, or I’ll find a Raymond Carver anthology in the bargain bin of the charity shop. Perhaps I’ll listen to this album on repeat until dinnertime, then watch the news and consider the evening’s plans. Who can tell? It’s enough to know that those thoughts are there, all enticed by the prospect of fruition. It’s enough to know that when the cellos kick in, I will wake up and there will be the day. Waiting.
posted by Jane at 11:31 pm
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