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Posts Tagged ‘sunday’

bottles  840

Sunday morning, lying on a cushion, the cat dreams in silence like a cat knows how to do.

——-

I read a study where scientists played music for apes to see their reactions, anything from Pachelbel’s Cannon to Cat Stevens, from Swiss mountain music to German house.  All of the music turned up no results. It was all just noise to the apes. Except one. The only music that had any reaction nearly put the apes to sleep. They calmed, and made their way onto their backs. What were these serene melodies? Metallica. Metallica to apes is like Enya.

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I used to listen to a college radio station that played jazz late nights. The DJ on at midnight had a raspy voice that sounded like too much second-hand-smoke in lounge after lounge. At the end of each show, as I pulled up to my house to some much needed rest, his sign off was this, “If you can’t sleep, don’t count sheep… Count Basie.”

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10 Cent Eras.


joshkitch1
I won’t say he belabored the point but he belabored the point.  “It’s a tragedy,” he kept saying.”

“I really don’t think it is,” I said.

“No seriously, it’s one of those things that marks the end of an era.  We are now in the over-three-dollars-for-a-loaf-of-bread era.  Just like remember the time of thirty-two cent postage stamps?”

“Those are eras?”

“Well.  Not each postage stamp increase thing.  It’s just that bread isn’t supposed cost three dollars.  That’s a thing.  That’s more than it is supposed to cost.  That makes bread somewhat unaffordable and that just can’t be.  It’s un-American.”

He had put three quarters into three different expired parking meters.  One of them didn’t even have a car in it and he said, “It’ll be nice for whoever gets here next.”  He carried the loaf of bread in a doubled plastic bag that they gave him and I said it is just as American as what they say the French do.

“What do the French do?” he asked.

“Carry the baguettes down the street under their armpit.  It’s what gives the bread the flavor, they say.”

“The French? Who’s they?” he asks.

“No.  The Germans.”

We took the bus home I spent most of the ride staring at a woman who stared at her reflection in the window the entire time not blinking.  She just stared, tired, into her own eyes with no judgment but with no kindness either.  The bus stopped at a light outside the church and all the kids were wearing their Sunday best and an older brother, I’d age him about eight, was holding his younger sister’s hand and they were both wearing long tweed coats and Sunday hats.

When we got home, he asked if he could borrow some quarters to do some laundry.   

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Ben says that it’s because

there is no one to wake you

up after two hours of sleep to a

shot of whisky to catch

the Gregorian chant early Sunday mornings.

 

Nathan says it’s because

there is no one to wake you

up bouncing on your bed

in their underwear at

three a.m.

just to read you a poem.

 

 Jules says it’s because you can’t nap to the sound of someone reading.

 

I say it’s because when I stretch myself

into an early Saturday

cup of tea

in hand

scanning the headlines on my computer

and he comes home

tired and still

glowing in first nights

and spring creeps in just a little with

a chirp

and he smiles that smile that says

I totally want to tell you all

about this

but first I’m

going to sleep 

 

and then brushes his teeth

 

And I think, to the buzz of his

electric toothbrush

 

that this is him

all of him and

 

Will be.

 

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