The red numbers on the digital clock living on the night table jiggle as jumbled thoughts pushed me to the edge of the bed. I’m forced to rise earlier than the now summer silent birds, because the urge to capture in written words those tenuous tangle of thoughts, and feelings is beyond urgent.
They come rushing towards me chilling like the edge of cold water over bare feet, drawing me down to the cycloptic eye of the computer. I’m determined to be snatching from oblivion, thoughts, reasoning's,
observations that flit through my mind like a soft breeze through a lace curtain, the correct grammar ignored. Imagining them into real, inscribed by my hand upon paper, or computer screen before they disappear into the dawn, sleepy eyed as they bid me farewell. They stay no longer than the hummingbirds at the brilliant pink flowers in my garden. Sleek, fast, flighty a conveyor belt of meanings packaged in a drowsy early morning wake up call that will only knock once, and then journey forward to someone else. Be greedy, grab what you can, use it, gather it, contain it, transcribe, turn this chaotic whirling mass into something useful is what I tell myself. Reach out, grasp those fleeting thoughts and turn them into words, embellished, cherished, read, and remembered for longer than the micro second so they stay in the mind. Determination pushes it’s outstretched legs against me, hogging the bed, moving, like a beloved pet securely claiming a favourite spot under the covers. There are no excuses this morning, thoughts beckon, demand, insist. They need to be heard, memorized, reread, and written. The tenuous creeping of a soft pink dawn lies blatantly to my face, giving misleading information about the scorching day ahead… confusing me into thinking that weather forecasts are wrong, and giving the sense that all will be well. If only I get up and copy down what I feel.
In the near dark lit only by the glow of a electronic screen, I record the virtual diary of my public life written in undecipherable computer code, backed up, edited, perused, and shared. Scribbled phrases that hang like sodden clothes on a backyard clothes line. Jerked by a unseen hand they come into my mental vision, before scurrying down the line, with new ones appearing as fast as they can be hung up. Don’t run out of clothespins they seem to say. Boo our spoiled tuxedo cat, skitters at my feet, mascaraing as a mostly black shadow in the dark of the morning. W ondering why I dare break his strict morning routine, no longer in bed giving off warmth and a place to lay up against. I tell him “one day I am going to trip over you and break my neck and you won’t get breakfast” once more, our morning ritual, as if his sonorous meowing's didn’t act as a fog horn warning in my sleep deprived brain. The cat rules with a iron fist, there are no velvet gloves, any change to his routine results in kitty tantrums, and sulking. Today it’s worth more to transcribe my morning thoughts while studiously ignoring the mouse like scratching's at the front door. Finally I relent, carry him upstairs like a small child, cuddling, and cooing, softly convincing him that the bed in the room I have just vacated is the perfect temperature for a cat to doze away the early morning, letting the birds greet the dawn, “just this once” for him. Breakfast eaten from his blue and white checked china dish now safely secured in his stomach he can afford to allow you to control that one aspect of his day. He will wreak his revenge later. I daydream of coffee, with it’s rich dark depths, the one third of a cup a daily ritual, but it’s far away in time, the skill to prepare it not something that I’ve ever cultivated. Instead I will wait until my beloved returns from his run, sweating, stretching, endorphins cascading off of him like droplets onto the freshly washed floor. It’s hot already this early in the morning and as I fruitlessly adjust fans, and open windows more thoughts escape like a moths. Where is the fly swatter when I need it? They could be smeared against the wall, to be peeled back, and investigated when I have a moment later. Some are recaptured, written down on the notepads that decorate desks. Silence fills the house, not deafening, encouraging. Tiny congested cat snores echo through the upstairs hallway, mingling with the sounds of mornings. Deep bellows tossed over toasting fields of wheat, waver on the open window sills and resonate in my chest like a cough. They come from the cows in the red barn that my camera loves in winter. Soon the neighbour’s chickens will cackle out their daily birth announcements loudly proclaimed as each egg laid gets marked on a feathered scoreboard.
A back door slams startling me from crafting a sentence, but if it means coffee is soon to be served, it’s worth the lapse of concentration. I’m grateful that no bears gave chase this morning, the black mound of berry infused bear scat recently encountered on the road near the white and orange kitties' farm worries me more than him. “There are photos” I told him, “would you like to see them?” As if photos of a pile of poop would convince him to run in another direction. They are harmless he said… not seen except by the corner of a eye, disappearing into the woods, but I worry still. The deer, silent, with glowing eyes from headlights a safer subject as I query his wildlife count from his run that morning. He leaves on important business to the backyard. The cranking of the water tap echoing through the floor reminds me that it’s our watering day, and there are flowers as desperate for a drink as I am for that minimal amount of fresh brewed French pressed coffee. Black please, no cream, no sugar. It’s morning, and there is work to be done.