A stay-in-bed kind of day

I went to bed at 8 p.m. last night. I got out of bed about 7:30 p.m. tonight. I mean, I took a couple of bathroom breaks and got a glass of water ... but I really didn't feel like doing anything.

So, this is what they mean by rapid cycling, huh? Yesterday, I called up all my friends -- even those I haven't seen in months -- trying to find somebody spontaneous enough to go on a road trip with me. Today, I stayed in bed for like 24 hours. When I couldn't sleep, I wrote. I thought about drawing some of the hallucinations, but I didn't feel like walking across the house to get my sketch book. ::sighs::

I'm listening to Ben Folds. Now it's Better Than Ezra. Now it's Billy Joel.

Oy. Phone's ringing. It's Carrie. I'm screening my calls. Sorry, dear. I just can't talk tonight.

I've decided I'm getting a tattoo of the Eye of Horus with an om symbol in the iris. For protection. And introspection. And, hell, because I want to. Got it down between two places: Trilogy and Underground Art. Any locals want to opine on either?

I usually wait a couple of days for my poetry to "cure" before I post it. Easier that way to fix the things that sound weird. But I feel in the mood to share ... so I'll post one of the three I wrote today. Or maybe two. Who the hell knows.

Sand and Stone
The man I have chosen
is a desolate beach,
and tonight I am the sea
rolling past the craggy cove
and aiming for the windswept dunes.
He breathes me in
and tells me he is an island;
I breathe him in
and tell him he is the shore --
and already the tide is coming in
to wash away these transgressions,
already, he has given me a footing
and I have begun to erode
his self-built walls.
Perhaps, tomorrow, I will be the beach
and he, the ocean ...
Or he, an albatross, and I, a boat --
Or perhaps we will both be strangers
washed upon the bleached-white sands,
marooned from civilization
and sharing cracked coconuts to survive.

Loom
If only the night were not so silent
And the air not so still and stale,
I would spin in barefoot circles
On my front lawn,
My arms stretched out for miles,
My hair kissed by the moonlit sky.
But instead, I'll tuck myself
onto this sagging sofa
Under a blanket of knitted memories --
My toes warmed by treehouse-spent summers,
My legs folded into autumn bus rides home,
And most of 2001 draped over my shoulders
the way your arms once did
When skeins of yarn lay at our feet
Like so many possibilities.

Okay, folks. My piano calls. Too bad I messed up one of my fingers bowling the other night. (I won anyway.) It hurts like heck, and yet I still feel drawn to play. Peace out.