Morning rises, to the rhythm of the roofing hammers, carnal coffee, a teasing and tingling daybreak revisitation of the floating worlds of the night before… this time lit by the venetian shadows and gold-white light of Saturday; a day colored unlike any other in the week, a brilliant and playful hue that hovers on the threshold of Sunday’s more coppery umber hues. I live in a world of mind and books, mostly, so it is a cold and revitalizing ablution to live for a few moments in the realm of the body. I recall, briefly, the sensation of walking through the canyon, with its shadowed scents, the dry sage and peppery spice of the deserts cooling reverie, trapped in the moist confines of lingering night. I remember a dream of running after the hovering scent of jasmine, lost in the gothic leaves of stone and the twisted roots of an ancient tree. It all mingles with the dark, roasted, nut-like flavor of my coffee, which is like a promise of the depths of the day. How else might I say this? This is a good day.
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To the library then: that vault of other’s dreams I so love to taste and share. We consume one another, over time, over era, through epochs; I smell the dust of past dreams– I taste the hopeful hints of the future. I go to solve an argument, to practice nonsense, and to map the angles and trajectories of my molting art. But the sustenance of this– the fuel– is from the minds of others; I am aware of how unoriginal my life is, being merely the amalgamation of the dreams of my ancestors. But today that doesn’t bother me… in fact, I feel honored to pick up threads, to comb through worlds gone, and to weave in hope and charcoal my vision of what is to come.
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I wish that your day is but a fraction of the joy that is mine.