Thursday, September 28, 2006

Glowing Orb

The sun is creeping up over the one-story flat houses that line the opposite side of the street. I suppose my place is on a bit of a hill, because those flat houses, despite their stubby presence, seem to begrudge the sun and guard me from it's full obsession.

I'm wondering about cyclical behaviour and the preoccupation with developing familiarity in emotional habits that we work to hard to instill, and then work even harder to rectify: we call ourselves "reborn," "revamped," "reworked," "rejeuvinated," "respected." I don't know. It seems nausiatingly cliche to contemplate the meaning of life on a Thursday morning in my pyjamas, quasi-latte at my side since I forgot to buy cream; tiny sounds of my son breathing and preparing to wake coming from the other room; my back crooked from hours in this chair; cobwebs in my eyes from getting up early for "alone time"; writing extra-long sentences because I'm not sure where to end the purging of my idea. And on and on. And on.

I hear a sound. It's the shutter on my cell phone camera taking a picture of the dark. I am afraid for a second, like there's some intruder in my room with artistic inclinations. I go in. Kaeden is on the floor with my phone taking pictures of the space underneath my bed. He's got a soother in his mouth and two beside him. He's looking at the phone, as surprised at the sound as I am. He is one year old.

Snuggle the baby. Make yogurt and cereal for him to eat. Make his lunch. Wipe him off. Change diaper. Dress. Strap him into his rocking chair in the bathroom while I shower. Dress myself. Pack our bags. Get into the car. Head to school. Bye, Hunny, see you at 4. Light a cigarette and turn up the stereo. Drive away, think about work. The sun is above me now, taunting me for trusting long sleeves were necessary in the morning's tiny cold. It squashes any semblence of restriction the flat houses had, and guides me into seven hours of thinking like an adult.

The day has begun.

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