Sunday, July 11, 2004
SUNDAY MORNING
I'm having an indolent Sunday morning. That's one of my favorite words of the moment: indolent.
I woke up after almost nine hours of sleep, naturally, with no alarm clock. I slowly shift my body in the bed and let the breeze coming through the window open my eyes. Such a humane way to live. That way, I remember my dreams. And there have been some vivid ones lately.
I made a full pot of coffee as soon as I talked myself into rising. I used up the last of my Raven's Brew from Sitka two days ago, and I miss it. But this Caffe Vitta blend from Macrina Bakery ain't bad either.
I unrolled the Sunday New York Times. Now, this is one of my peculiar habits. One of my favorite moments of the week is opening the enormous pile of papers in the Sunday New York Times, then sorting the sections. I go through and throw all the sections I'm not going to read (mostly the business and sports sections) to the right of me. And then I go through all the rest of the sections and pile them up in placement by the order I want to read them.
Styles section first. Yes, silly, I know. But they have this weddings section, with photos of the couples and details of their lives, that usually shares good stories of how people met. And you know me and the stories. I like the improbable ones best. That section is also the most tongue-in-cheek of the entire paper, which suits me just fine. It's also my fix of silly New York doings. After I'm done reading those stories, I feel happy that I don't live there anymore. I'm also happy that I had the experiences I did so I know what I'm disdaining.
Arts and Leisure next, which is a whopping big section on dance, theatre, movies, television, and music. I'm usually inspired by one of the artists, inspired enough to write down a quote in my idea book for later perusal. This morning, it was Mark Morris, diva dancer and choreographer who adores music. "With my company, sometimes I say, 'That's nice, but it's not inhabited.' I tell them that it looks like footprints painted on the floor. Learning the steps is only like learning the notes, but I want more."
And then I write down ideas for the novel in my little idea book for the next half hour.
At this point, I'm on my third cup of coffee and have eaten my chicken sausage and five-grain cereal. And this morning, nearly half a pint of organic raspberries I bought at the farmers' market yesterday. They were so damned good. When I ate the first one, while standing by the coffee pot, waiting for it to finish dripping, I spontaneously rose to my toes and shouted. Ah, pure sweetness with enough tartness at the end to make me come back for more.
And also at this point, my fingers are blackened from the newsprint, so I have to rise from the bed to wash my hands. Magazine next, which is glossy paper. No hint of stain. But also the more serious news, the longer pieces, the ones that make me wince about the world. Since I read everything thoroughly, it's quite the bulk of information. But since I read fast, it has only been an hour and a half. Time for a break.
And so I'm writing to you.
I might go back to the book review, the travel section, the front page. Or I might let them languish on the floor next to my bed for the next couple of days. It's time to move into the world now. I'm going to take a long walk downtown, slowly, while listening to music. (Maybe the Beatles this morning.) I'm meeting two of my favorite Seattle students, who both graduated a month ago. They're brilliant and talented and spazzy, two of my favorite people in the world. Eager to see me, and me them. I know they'll have stories. So we're meeting at Top Pot doughnuts, which makes, undeniably, the best doughnuts in the city. If not the world. Seriously. If you ever come visit Seattle, I'll take you there. There will be hilarity and serious conversations both.
And then I'll come home on the bus, opened by the contact with other people. And write for a few hours. Then feel utterly alive.
So I'd better go and start that.
Oh, and I really have to clean my kitchen.
I'm having an indolent Sunday morning. That's one of my favorite words of the moment: indolent.
I woke up after almost nine hours of sleep, naturally, with no alarm clock. I slowly shift my body in the bed and let the breeze coming through the window open my eyes. Such a humane way to live. That way, I remember my dreams. And there have been some vivid ones lately.
I made a full pot of coffee as soon as I talked myself into rising. I used up the last of my Raven's Brew from Sitka two days ago, and I miss it. But this Caffe Vitta blend from Macrina Bakery ain't bad either.
I unrolled the Sunday New York Times. Now, this is one of my peculiar habits. One of my favorite moments of the week is opening the enormous pile of papers in the Sunday New York Times, then sorting the sections. I go through and throw all the sections I'm not going to read (mostly the business and sports sections) to the right of me. And then I go through all the rest of the sections and pile them up in placement by the order I want to read them.
Styles section first. Yes, silly, I know. But they have this weddings section, with photos of the couples and details of their lives, that usually shares good stories of how people met. And you know me and the stories. I like the improbable ones best. That section is also the most tongue-in-cheek of the entire paper, which suits me just fine. It's also my fix of silly New York doings. After I'm done reading those stories, I feel happy that I don't live there anymore. I'm also happy that I had the experiences I did so I know what I'm disdaining.
Arts and Leisure next, which is a whopping big section on dance, theatre, movies, television, and music. I'm usually inspired by one of the artists, inspired enough to write down a quote in my idea book for later perusal. This morning, it was Mark Morris, diva dancer and choreographer who adores music. "With my company, sometimes I say, 'That's nice, but it's not inhabited.' I tell them that it looks like footprints painted on the floor. Learning the steps is only like learning the notes, but I want more."
And then I write down ideas for the novel in my little idea book for the next half hour.
At this point, I'm on my third cup of coffee and have eaten my chicken sausage and five-grain cereal. And this morning, nearly half a pint of organic raspberries I bought at the farmers' market yesterday. They were so damned good. When I ate the first one, while standing by the coffee pot, waiting for it to finish dripping, I spontaneously rose to my toes and shouted. Ah, pure sweetness with enough tartness at the end to make me come back for more.
And also at this point, my fingers are blackened from the newsprint, so I have to rise from the bed to wash my hands. Magazine next, which is glossy paper. No hint of stain. But also the more serious news, the longer pieces, the ones that make me wince about the world. Since I read everything thoroughly, it's quite the bulk of information. But since I read fast, it has only been an hour and a half. Time for a break.
And so I'm writing to you.
I might go back to the book review, the travel section, the front page. Or I might let them languish on the floor next to my bed for the next couple of days. It's time to move into the world now. I'm going to take a long walk downtown, slowly, while listening to music. (Maybe the Beatles this morning.) I'm meeting two of my favorite Seattle students, who both graduated a month ago. They're brilliant and talented and spazzy, two of my favorite people in the world. Eager to see me, and me them. I know they'll have stories. So we're meeting at Top Pot doughnuts, which makes, undeniably, the best doughnuts in the city. If not the world. Seriously. If you ever come visit Seattle, I'll take you there. There will be hilarity and serious conversations both.
And then I'll come home on the bus, opened by the contact with other people. And write for a few hours. Then feel utterly alive.
So I'd better go and start that.
Oh, and I really have to clean my kitchen.
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