Sunday Meandering

Nothing much to say today, just a quiet-ish Sunday morning on which I woke up curled like a boiled shrimp under my fuzzy blanket, hugging my book and half a pillow to my face, with the cat tucked deep into the curve of my legs, so soundly asleep that she didn't even move when I got up at 8:30, just emerged an hour later to yell "HI!" with all her kitty bedhead still tousled around her.

Lazy convo with the Dood about nothing while he made breakfast for his roommate and roommate's family. I advised him to put the grated potatoes into a colander and press out as much moisture as possible, lest he end up with a pan full of flaccid fried potato mush.

Washing dishes and cleaning the bathroom while I ponder what to make for Roni for dinner -- we still haven't had our Christmas, and I haven't seen her since mid-December when she went to Oregon to spend two weeks with her man. She came back engaged! I'm so happy for her because she finally has a man who seems to have his shit together and isn't a criminal or layabout and who isn't sitting around waiting for her to take care of him.

Some mixed feelings as the realization sunk in that my best friend is going to be a continent away in about 6 months. Actually, there was no "sinking in," there was Life, bonking me on the head with its interminable impermanence meme. Goddamit. This, for some reason, triggered some wholly unreasonable feelings of anger at Dood. Poor guy's all "What'd I do? Huccome you're mad at ME?" I dunno, I just WAS. Really uncomfortable weekend last weekend -- so uncomfortable that I called a time-out that lasted all of a day and a half, before I realized I'd rather be pissed about something and talking about it than pissed and hiding. I will say, however, that the day and a half did give me a chance to take one big, deep oxygenating breath and collect myself.

I get to still be Aileen and do Aileen things, and Dood gets to be Dood and do Dood-things, and as long as we are both truthful about where we are (emotionally and physically), we aren't doing harm. If I think I hear something in his tone, I recognize that it's my own projection, and vice-versa. I do kinda wish he'd stop using the label "ugly" to describe my actions or words, but as long as I know that my intention was neutral, I have to let that go. Labelling has the effect of simply shutting me and any reasonable response I might have down. I don't even bother responding anymore -- I just pause and move along, because otherwise we get into a debate about why the words I said were "bad" (therefore, making me "bad" for saying them) and he gets to be the injured party and I end up defensive about doing nothing wrong. Know what I'm saying? So in in the very act of defending something that doesn't require defensiveness, I end up resentful because I've been made to feel "wrong" when I didn't do anything. Better to just let the judgement rest where it landed, just outside his mouth. It's not for me to point out someone else's projections, but only to recognize my own. When the student is ready, the teacher appears.

So it's a nice, quiet Sunday morning, and I had the breakfast of a five-year-old, quick and easy Cream of Wheat. I love Cream of Wheat, and completely forgot I had it in my pantry. With a nice pat of butter and some maple syrup, a good and comforting Sunday breakfast.

And my Sunday morning music while I blurt this blog post? Good, mellow Sunday morning music: George Benson's "Breezin'." I remember my brother used to play it on Sunday mornings -- on vinyl, of course, on his Technics turntable, of course, which was hooked into his Yamaha receiver, of course. (I still have that receiver, the one powered by tubes and shit, at my friend Sean's house, where it resides with my Bose 201's.)

But I digress from my digressions. Did you know "Breezin'" was written by Bobby Womack? And "This Masquerade," by Leon Russell? And "Affirmation" by Jose Feliciano? The amazing things you can learm from liner notes.

In this era of digital music downloads, does anyone bother with liner notes anymore? Does anyone squint at the copyright line on a digital track and say, "Wow, I was TWELVE when this record came out," and in that instant have a series of flash-memories of being 12 and what it felt like to wake up on a Sunday when you were 12, and going to 10 o'clock mass with Dad, and coming back to Mom making breakfast and the smells of sausage and coffee and Dad's Pall Mall Reds, and the "Pittsburgh Press" scattered around the table, with George Benson (a son of Pittsburgh, along with another jazz great, Ahmad Jamal) playing in the background? Do families even eat Sunday breakfast together anymore?

One day I'll regale you with a story about a friend of mine who used to work for GRP Records and the time the esteemed Mr. Benson was in his office noodling on a new guitar he was showing off. Another time.

Anyway, it's a calm and peaceful Sunday. The Steelers won against the Ravens last night in a game that came down to nailbiting in the last five minutes of the game. Today the Jets play the Patriots, and in the event of an unlikely upset, I guess the Steelers will be going to the Super Bowl again (I mean, how many upsets can the Jets pull off phhhht?). Ho-hum, Steelers in the Super Bowl? And the sun came up in the east this morning, too.

Another Lombardi would pretty much complete the image rehabilitation of Ben "The Molester" Roethlisberger, wouldn't it? Rabid sports fans can forgive anything except losing, I guess.

I start traveling again next week -- I leave for LA on the 24th, fly to Houston on the 27th, then back to LA on the 1st, then to Cincinnati on the 3rd and back to Houston on the 4th. Finally back to NYC on the 7th. Poor Miss Kitty is going to be soooo pissed at me.

But I'll get to see Dood for two weekends running, which is a good thing, because like it or not, I need the human contact to keep him real. The words, words, words of all our talk, talk, talk, they just aren't enough for me. I need to taste and smell and touch someone to remind myself that I actually have a real relationship with him. Elizabeth Barrett I am not, and if I were, I probably couldn't come up with, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

I'm more Audre Lorde:

Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
meet
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not
but as your body moves
under my hands
charged and waiting
we cut the leash
you create me against your thighs
hilly with images
moving through our word countries
my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me.
Touching you I catch midnight
as moon fires set in my throat
I love you flesh into blossom
I made you
and take you made
into me.
("Recreation," Audre Lorde, 1978)