Thursday, January 15, 2015

What Time Is It?

“Between 4:00 and 6:00 AM” the somewhat whispering, but still reassuring sound of my own voice bouncing off the emaciated  wad of squish that used to be my brain, alerting me that there were still several hours before I had to lug my giant frame from the comfort of my bed and prepare for the day. Shuffling back to bed, eyes squinted to nearly closed as I returned from one of the, “Oh this is a thing now?!” many trips to the potty that wake me from my much needed slumber, like a clumsy new lover or relentless nagging thought now a day.

Covers pulled back with a wince as I tried to avoid waking the adorable tucked in lump that shares my bed, I slipped one leg in and ever so gracefully, (picture me shaking my head here) scrunched all the way down on one hip, burrowing in a move that must have resembled some rodent running from whatever might be chasing them, in my case that just so happened to be morning. The way-too-many pillows I need all re-stuffed around my….stuffing, I let my shoulders go soft with the thought of the dark sky and the hope of a couple, to a few, more hours of “Shhhhh” and life as it moved on without even bothering to ask my stoopid permission. 

The holiday tension and energy now behind me I find myself feeling a bit like a spent balloon that desperately needs a good sound blowing. The season was fun, as it always is, and things went amazingly smooth considering how much pre-holiday stress I stupidly foisted upon myself. Store did so very well, staff got along…mostly, and there was a very noticeable lack of douchebaggery from harried and stressed customers. No one looking to get a $20 basket, to New York, two days before Christmas, for like $4.00 in shipping charges. Sort of an easy crazy season that now finds me with all this space to fill. This morning I filled it with the smell of crisp clean air, big framed bits of my room that I could just barely make out with my ever-aging eyes, and feeling the bulk of a deep snuggle from a fluffy brown comforter as it seemingly pressed the entire weight of me into my mattress. 

The sound of 4:00-6:00 AM. A sound known well to the night shifters, party monsters and weirdly sleep deprived. One begins to know the season by the sounds of 4:00-6:00 AM. The differences between the summer and winter by the depth of the hum from tires as they groan along the ridges of the freeway pavement, a sound that finds an audience and home in the ears and hearts of the late night fringe sleepers. Finds an understanding and comfort from those of us that have spent years learning each and every tiny shift, tear and reshaping of noise. The way we hear the day flip open like tabs on a laptop, the hearty grumble of garbage trucks as they scoop up our excesses and let it all fall, unapologetic and without judgement into the beds of their rigs with loud and dusty thunks, clinks and exasperated exhales. The delicate chirp of birds calling the sun to spread wide open above us….the way the cold air moves slower, wraps around the noise like a moist scarf, the way the warm air makes everything sound swollen and urgent. The cacophonous jangle of noise that is a day beginning, no matter what time this kooky wank decided to stumble off to bed, the kind of deeply satisfying and comforting feeling I’ve secretly always assumed felt akin to a pair of warm parental lips kissing a sweaty brow and cooing, “It’s okay baby, it’s just a bad dream” might feel like.

The woman from the 300 building that wears the super high heels, just a touch too much drug store perfume and a skirt that squeezes her ample thighs together in such a manner that it causes her steps to hit the crumbly asphalt hard and deliberate, but with a short stride. The way her spiked clips of urgency echo as she runs, tightly, back to her apartment for that one last thing she forgot, again, her gate a soundtrack as the sun slowly tugs, just, that, much, closer. A thick pair of heels rattling my ceiling as the Persian man that sleeps, like I do, as in sometimes, above me, stumbles to life and bolts down the stairs to pick up whichever fare called for his taxi cab, always instigating a few more loudly clomping feets to start moving, one pair that will start coaxing rich, savory smells to erupt from her stovetop and waft gently, utterly intoxicatingly into the cube of my own kitchen in a way that feels like a warm pair of hands on my cheeks.  The scream of an obnoxiously loud alarm, the collective vibration as lights, televisions, computers and i-devices come spinning to life with each shade of light that creeps along the window frame…that much closer, distracting my ears by dancing flickering shapes across my eyelids.


This morning rich with sound, vibration, aromatics and fluttering bits of light that spread open the thick mound of comforting comforter to send the saturated feeling of new starts deep within me felt like a heroic tight mouth breathing new life into me.

A new day

A new year

Another 365 chances to fall in love just a little bit every day…




Winey The Elder said...

Welcome back, Samantha. The 4a to 6a shift is mine and I am delighted to find you here this morning! The ritual had become too familiar: creeping down the stairs so as not to wake la femme; stumbling through the coffee routine; slapping on my christmas gift shackle (a "fit bit" for a "fat butt" methinks) and settling down to this slim silver sliver of fruit to see if this day would be the day that the muse again finds her way to Samantha's lap, smoothes the wayward tresses from her lovely visage and gently coaxes the achingly familiar imagery from her heart. And after what seemed an eternity, today's the day! You have been sorely missed.
Hugs and kisses,

Thomas said...

Made me think of living in an apartment in NY City. Been so long, I don't know what morning sounds like other than birdsong.


Dale Dimas said...

The paragraph that starts with the 4:00AM to 6:00AM descriptions...Made me hear 40s Hollywood Noir music. I think you got a novel or screenplay started there, toots!

I want to learn to notice the world like you do. And then I need to learn how to remember and describe it.

Just love your writing. Thanks for sharing it.

Samantha Dugan said...

Man you make me feel so damned wanted, something that I have not been allowing myself to feel for sometime, so thank you, thank you, Thank You. I confess the waiting a bit to come back assuming that it would be easier once people stopped looking...

I adore and am constantly annoyed by the sounds of shared space. I once read somewhere that humans would go mad in absolute silence, I know without question that I would. Probably faster than most. Hell I start getting antsy and humming or talking to myself when things get too silent in my place. Nice to see you dear friend, thanks for being here.

A novel? Now there's a....wait, too easy. I find hope and peace in the tiny details, the sound the smells, the little bumps on a lovers skin....each thing is a gift to me and let me love just that much more. Get out there and listen, taste, back! Thanks as always for your kindness to me and of my "work" here. Means so very much.

webb said...

What a lovely Sunday surprise! You're back and sharing all those lovely feelings that spin thru your head. Hope this will be a good year for you and that the thoughts will just keep flowing...

Samantha Dugan said...

Well right back at ya lady! Thanks for being here, happy t find me and giving a rat's backside. Hugs and happy new year to you!