One of the things that this year has in common with the last year is that there are still Sundays. New year, new Sunday. I’m writing as if this is a New Years poem because I skipped last week. Sometimes we need a break. I spent all of last Sunday moving boxes and some furniture up four flights of stairs so that the boxes and furniture could hang out in my new apartment with me. We’ve been having a good time ever since. Also, it turns out that moving is a pretty good workout. Now accepting volunteers to help me move heavy things around as a social hobby and exercise. (Whenever people talk about weight lifting as picking up heavy things and then putting them down again I feel like that’s a pretty compelling thing to do with one’s time. If only I had more patience with being in a gym.)
OK, Sundays, as I continue to suggest, are as good a day as any to sit and think. Tonight I’m suffering a little bit from lack of sleep, but I find that a little bit of considered thinking is a nice transition from waking life to sleeping life. Maybe consider something that’s been vexing you before you go to bed. Tisanes multitude can be sipped which help you sleep. Sometimes you just have to relax and your mind-body will work on your problems for you. As always, if you need a little bit of help, I’m here. A poem about the New Year is below.
whose mouth tastes like buttered, fresh corn
entraps my own mouth
when he reads aloud
“kiss the person at the table
who you think most wants to be kissed.”
The city is wide;
from one side of the ring road
to the other
and six hundred times
i could be lain end to end.
The next day
I tell a person who has arms
which look a little bit like mine
and whose hair is only parted
slightly different than mine
that bussing home took almost two hours
i guess everyone was sleepy
and had been up too late anyway.
We have those nights
we are allowed to be up
for quite a while
I try not to drink so much,
but still find being up
a hard thing
for the body to deal with.
Sometimes the body just wants to be down.
And so does the mind.
(I try not to enforce that dichotomy,
let me correct myself:)
The self needs to be down.
And the windows aren’t well sealed
and the duvet exploded last week
and there aren’t any paintings on the wall
so I retreat to the bath for a long time.
It’s good there.
Even if, stepping in,
I worry that I’m going to lose it all
to the hot water.
There’s are beds all over the town
warmer than mine.
This post was originally written on January 10, 2015 for Latitude 53, while I was their Writer in Residence.