I am pretty good about morning rituals. I enjoy them, ..some of them, I love cooking breakfast for my lovely one, I enjoy feeding the screaming cat at my heels, and the stealthier cat at the back or front door, whichever one he chooses to be fed at that particular morning. I enjoy whipping up the coffee as the sun ambles over the slate coloured mountains and floods the small kitchen with shards of bacon-smog-filled light.I love it. I love shifting my glasses back up my nose, which i use for protection from fried food splatter as much as for seeing, and plugging in the percolator and listening to the hot black coffee dripping down as the pot shifts its heat and sounds like a helicopter banking to the right.What I don't enjoy is sticking myself with two needles and swallowing umpteen vitamins and checking the barometric pressure to see how bad my head will ache and then having a couple pills to stabilize the answer and then having a banana so maybe I can go out in the sun for a little while without too much consequence, yes, a banana. Potassium to counteract the water pill which doesn't believe in said electrolytes. Vitamin B too, because the sun drains your liver of it, and then your glucose goes spilling away due to the lack of vitamin B...yadda, ****ing yadda. So, in essence, without the sun, the radio in the corner, the love of the mouths to feed, I would say mornings were corrupt attempts at buying a day for myself, and that would make my wallet corrupt of any days at all.I'd stay in bed ignoring potassium and all things good.

This passage is actually about words.I got all tangent-y. Sorry.

I once had a white, persian cat. She was white and floofy, and she was named after Mozart's wife, Stanze, because she too, with her generous wigs, gowns and make-up was also terribly white and poofy.BUT, the difference was I called her Tanzen which means 'to dance' in German, not Constanze, which as far as I can see is simply, a name.Probably meaning Constant. Whatever, I prefer, to dance.

Well, one day, long long ago, we had a tiny white plastic table, bought from the green stamp company, not to date myself, but that's just how long ago that was, groceries still came with redeemable green stamp rewards , good for furniture of the white plastic-y, then modern issue evidently, because that's what mom got with them. So, one day, Stanze the white poof-wonder, is tearing about the house as cats will, after taking a dump, or eting their food, or waking up.. whatever inspires them to do it, she was, and slammed unmercifully headlong into the white plastic-y leg of said table with her forehead or rather, the flat top of her head as she was bent low in her flight. She bounced off, and for the longest time stood there, as the pain radiated down from the point of impact, with both ears flat and her eyes shut, squashed shut, not knowing whether to look, if it were safe, but ohhh, the hurt. She peeked slowly time after time, returning again and again to the same flat-eared posture of dismay, desperate for the pain to stop pounding and not wanting to be hit again, for certainly she thought the table leg had reared up and bashed her in her travails. She got over it after a few snuggles and reassurings, for I could not leave her there, foreheadedly fighting off her invisible assailant.

Also, another of our cats, Cicero, sleeping on the back of the toilet tank, got up to move, and he's quite old, and slipped upon the porcelain, and ending up standing in the actual toilet, legs and feet in the cold water, his forearms wrapped about my arm, as I had been standing at the sink, and his eyes shut, in the same way, please save me even though I know I feel and I'm some where I shouldn't be. He stood there, shaking, legs uncomfortable, eyes smashed shut, pleading for amnesty he felt that he couldn't get. I dragged him out and dried him, kissed his soft-smooth head and sent him on his way.

I realized last night, that words are like sudden ,violently smashed into table-legs, or swift falls into **** cold knee-high waters.

Sometimes during arguments, or when hard words are coming at me, (..and maybe I was running too fast, or I lost my footing and done something that makes me fall into incorrect places) that, my forehead does get hot, and I do smash my eyes shut, and I breathe a little too slow and take in huge draughts of air, and beg inwardly for amnesties that sometimes I do deserve like a misplaced feline. Words are like harsh little darts to the forehead, and they do radiate down and in and hurt so very badly until the smashing sensation stops. I thought of Stanze last night, when my eyes shut hard, I saw her backing up and up and up.

My tears are never pretty things and they burn in hot little droplets of foolishness, and I do not prefer anger to them, and with great reluctance do I ever become angry, but it shows when I do. I am a silent menace that drops things loudly and chucks other things harder and I'll make you hate the fact that you have senses at all, but I control the words that well up worse than hot droplets ever could, because I know of the hot-eye- smash that they cause. I know how deeply the barbs burrow and do not re-emerge, sometimes no matter the salve employed. I would describe all of this..say all of these things, if my ****ing throat didn't close off when the harshness starts and the sobs go to prisons of propriety and do not attempt to escape at all knowing the border patrol shoots to kill.

I gave up my nighttime cuddles for early morning apologies. Never an easy trade and one I hate, but I filled the light-shards of dawn with bacon smog, and tied up anguishes into pretty soul-boxes and prayed for love and forgive-me-kisses and smouldering brown eyed I'mofftowork-goodbyes and smiles. I got.

I saved the burning hot droplets for lovedone around the corner, already writing in the journal pastiche.

Its always so bright out when she leaves, the sun so new. I squint until she slips into the 6 hours she spends around the corner of the neighbour's house in my self-imposed object-permanance mode, to ward off the separation anxiety I never had before this woman. I watch the sun touch her until I can't.

Stanze tried to teach me to not run willy-nilly, but God knows... I prefer, to dance.

Dance is good

Hi, Jackie Thank you.

i keep rereading this tryin to come up with some semi-sensible response
...but the title just makes me want to blast some Mika and dance!

How the he.ll ever, would I field a sensible response?? Be careful, with my insanity pls. Applehead.LOLOL.Just keep re-reading, me likes dat.
Your signature, is the essence of life, just so you know.
*blasts Mika* \o/