Saturday, October 16, 2010

This morning

The sound of the  Westminster grandfather clock chiming six bells broke the silence of the dark morning and awareness crept in like fog, on tiny cats feet. Eyes not yet open, the beginning days thoughts began to encroach and push the fading dreams from the mans mind. He laid there, clinging to each peace of dream, as if to discern meaning and fabric from the memories of what seemed just a few moments hence. Images and words were moving back into the orderly files of those sleep files, but he still struggled to wrest a story from them, or was it his past? It certainly did not seem to be something he remembered in this life time but the faces and local was definitely familiar. Dreams always seemed as such to him. A fantastical journey of what was and could be, mixed with the musings and hopes of what was not and will never happen. Strong, dark sexual images, questing eyes, a concern of another, and then it fades to the more pressing needs straining the confines of his boxers. The urgency of needing to relieve his bladder or get laid seemed a mix signal to a mind not yet awake. At least one of those could be dealt with, so he shoved aside the sheets and down comforter, mindful of the mornings chill and padded silently to the bathroom his feet whispering a prayer softly..

His eyes were not fully ready for the insulting light and he squinted while fumbling with the band of cotton around his waist. Sight finally showed that what he was searching for had already poked out and was announcing the location of  his navel and was certainly not being compliant or willing to be aimed anywhere in a direction closer to the floor. He could see his heart beat in it making it sway.  A few moments pause and pushing found enough tumescence for his intentions and with a grateful sigh, water began to sing and splash loudly in the bowl with a deep, tumbling hum. His eyes scanned for the familiar red digits of the alarm clock and it silently announced that yes, it really was 6:14 in the morning. Slapping the light back off, his eyes grateful, he idly scratched the tuft of hair on his belly and found his way by sound to the tall, heavy oaken armoire. Feet on cold tile, stepping slowly, feet on hardwood boards, warmer still, the soft brush of a tufted carpet and he arrived.

The hammered brass handles were easy for his thick fingers to find, even in the gray light and he swung the doors open to the left and right the snick of clasps announcing their release. Scent of cedar lined shelves, waft of cologne on thick woolen sweaters, the hint of fabric softened linens and the light tang of gun oil slipped past his nose. He knew where he was. This was home. Hands found the combed cotton pajama pants and a well worn t-shirt by feel. The pieces that came away in his paws complimented in color and texture, which, for some reason, struck him as amusing and a grin stretched over his lips and wiggled his nose. Always precise, even in the half light of morning and  far from awake...he mused. Pants pulled lightly over hips, up and over his slowly deflating bulge. Couple of firm tucks and pushes got everything into place down there. A t-shirt stretched over head and settled onto shoulders and torso like a soft hug. These textiles chased the chill a bit further into his memory. A yawn splits his face while a hard stretch makes chords pop and the quiet room heard his gentle but rough sigh. The zip of a hoodie going on sounded like a muted but cheery cricket lost inside where it was warmer. Feet slipped into  frayed hemp and leather flip flops and he left the room like a shadow.

He walked through the darkened house, memories and touch serving his passage more so than eyes would ever tell. Forward down the hall past large framed pictures collected while traveling, stairs and furled ballister to the right  then left under hand and then there was days light, peeking in the transom over the front door. Birds peeping in the evergreens planted on the south west corner announcing their cheerful good mornings. The slide of brushed nickle mortise locks crisping open, well oiled against winters arrival, snicked loudly as the broad   solid paneled door swung open on a new day. Pushing the leaded glass storm door wide against the hinges, he stepped onto the brick and timbered front porch and settled himself on the steps this morning instead of his familiar  Adirondack chair. Deep breaths in brought Falls musk and cool air into a body still warmed from sleep. The chill of stone made a cold spot on his rump. A hand rubbed his face, grasped his chin firmly and twisted left and towards the trees. The internal musket crack of joints popping brought a contented smile to his face. Long legs drawn up in a mantis crouch kept his knees close to his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around himself and arched his back forward, eyes wide now and accepting. Autumn colors graced his eyes, rippling meaning, like a just tossed upon pond.

Thought had arrived. Dreams were gone but for awhile...


And so he sat.


  1. Man, I'm kind of intrigued about your love for the process of getting the day started you blog about it a lot. I'm more of a get up and rush, so I can actually start what I consider the read day when I'm doing stuff. I appreciate your ability to appreciate the routine things of every day life.

  2. Chris,

    I am a pretty methodical guy. While I sometimes may move through life at Mach 1 making decisions with break neck speed, I do tend to have a pattern to each day. Guess the mornings kind of stick in my head, since I tend to sit down to blog in the early hours.

    There are all kinds of things I would like to write about someday here, but they seem to escape my mind when I first get up.

    I take comfort in the details. Sometimes those are the only parts of my day and life that I have a say in. :)