At 6am, the trash truck rumbles and clanks, hisses and lurches. I’ve been up since 5 when I woke from a dream in which I was arguing with a family member about why I don’t have any groceries – specifically, I was out of butter and they wanted breakfast and they were disappointed in me. I am out of groceries. I’m a little disappointed in me, too. This morning, I had just enough coffee for today’s pot. I’ve had the time to get to the store, just not the motivation. In my head, I’ll say, I have enough to get through tomorrow – and so long as I keep telling myself that, I keep putting it off. The coffee situation will force my hand. I’ll get some food this afternoon.
I was actually up at 4am and fitfully trying to sleep for another hour or two. Fitfulness won out at 5am. I stayed in bed scrolling on my phone for 10 or 15 minutes. Social media, dating apps. I thought about trying to establish better writing habits. Wake early, don’t scroll, sit and write. I thought about the poet Mary Oliver’s advice: show up regularly and the writing will show up too. Being up early reminded me of when I used to be more of a morning person.
After breakfast, I read. First the news, and then some poems. A headline about chefs lining up to cook for a celebrity steer (or horse or something like that) titled “Cooking for Suzanne” or something like that became the jumping off point for a poem or paragraph about how I was remembering my dog’s feeding ritual and how he’d eat too quickly and gag. But of course, I was also remembering the dog, his weight against me as he slept next to me on the sofa. That might have to be the thing that counts as writing for the day.
It’s later now, but not much. It’s light out and solid gray. The sound of the trash truck has been replaced by that of a squawking seagull. I should open the blinds, turn off the lamps, maybe try my hand at writing something else, or at least get started on that grocery list.