Mondays are like...

the snoring of your muse,
or the absence of a guardian angel.
Mondays are accidentally pouring sugar on your fries or salt in your coffee.

(this is a reprint of a post from january, since I have a paper to write and have procrastinated)

anyway, at least I had a dream that I won some "be a rock star for a day" contest.
there was much discussion about my hair.
and i'm pretty sure ryan seacrest was there.
apparently no one had noticed that I CAN'T SING.
i love that kind of dream!

and you know what else I love?
hickies.
I left a rather dark one on Mr. bored's neck over the weekend,
and when I pointed it out to him he said, "You suck!"
It was almost too much of an unintentional pun to even laugh at.
but somehow I managed.

so I got a surprise nipple-piercing from the cat the other day.
stingy bitch didn't even include the jewelery.
I can still see the hole she made, and I am now certain that my choice to NEVER EVER NO-MATTER-WHAT-THEY-PAY-ME get my nipples pierced was the right one for me.
oh, i think it would be sexy as hell, but...
I've known since before "the incident" that I am not cut out for such things.
I like a little pain with pleasure, but piercing certain places would never work for me, that's all.

sometimes my world feels like a swirling mixture of past, present and future--
all of those realities on one plane, in one breath.
I see people who aren't here, and I wonder which version of my life they came from.
sometimes they flutter through my head and are gone again as I exhale.
sometimes I run my fingers through the textured memory of someone,
wondering, wandering...
It feels like a good stretch would take my present to a different place,
but it only lasts a moment.
the tastes are stronger, the sounds echo-y, and distant--
and the light that penetrates my loosely-closed eyelids casts an eery glow on everything.
I want to live 9 lives, like a cat.
I want to live them all at once, and on repeat.
I want to be a ray of light, sliding across the earth,
seeking a landing point, a reflection point.
I want to absorb all other colors, and only reflect the color of joy.
what is that color?
I want to feel.
EVERYTHING.
I want to taste and smell and hear...
I would like to be standing on my beach right now.
It is ten degrees below freezing there.
no matter how long I live in this other "home",
that beach still fits just right in my heart--
a little too big, so it is bursting,
but the blues and greens and white capped waves--
iceberg-y bay, right now.
the choppy look of the ice, as it is always shifting
the cold made sharper by the salt-tipped winds.
the heightened sense of being alive,
of being mortal.
i am a fragile creature in the arms of that ocean.
it has taken members of my family,
and i am sure it is not done yet.
I will reach out and grasp my purpose,
like reaching through the fog of those shores,
or walking down a train track with headphones on...
I feel it out there.
I know it's mine.
It is larger than me, I am larger than it.

for the record...
my muse doesn't sleep late or wake up ornery on Mondays...
he courses through me, whispering, kissing, coaxing.
he breathes for me so i can sink deeper inside,
he tickles my arm with his whiskers,
he breathes softly in my ear, and I shrug him off this time--
not today, my love, not today...
sometimes I wonder if my muse has a home of his own,
or where he goes when he's not pattering his fingers over my soul...
but whatever he is, he has shown me how to fly.
he kissed my back and wings appeared,
he laughed into my neck, as we lay together,
and I was filled with a giggle-like power surge--
the ability to use those wings for flight.
he is burned into my skin, more deeply than my tattoo, or his.
he is sewn into me, he is the blood in my veins.
he is.
my muse.
...or am I his?

(Happy Birthday to Julie O. today!! More on that later...)