Okay, I am famished. I am hungry and I am eager. This is like sex - you have to get as much as you can, go as hard as you can, feel as much as you can before it is over. And when it's over, it's over. For days I have been splints of static hopping from one end of the couch to the other. I've been static unable to shake. Brushing particles, slapping limbs, running around naked but it never ends.
I am a morning routine. They tell me I do nothing, all day, every day. But I am routine. I am happy. On my free time I do the things that make me happy. That give me pleasure: 9 o' clock wake up. 9-9:30 two cups of coffee over relaxation. 9:30-10 self cleansing. 10-10:15 sun salutation yoga experience. 10:15-12:00 currently Eggers, Eggers, Eggers. 12-12:15 Natalie's specialized salad preparation. 12:15-12:30 the devouring of Natalie's specialized salad. The routine is finished off with ukulele practice. I don't want to call it practice because it is not practice, it is healing.
Mornings when busy bee's are at work in the REAL world I have breathing room. I have a whole house to breathe in.
My hands are dry. Dry at the knuckles and punctured at the grip. My skin is turning into that of my grandmothers. But how? So soon? Already? Loose skin. Rippled skin. Cracked and and cut into tiny little boxes. I knew I'd get this skin. The 80 year old skin. The skin of one body traveling so many places in so much time and fevered skin and brutal skin. Weathered skin. Snake skin. Red skin.
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