I wake up before I’m done sleeping and go back to sleep.
Somehow too late and too early to put into the Coosa and paddle.
So I do what I’ve been doing most summer mornings: read poetry.
And then the poems make my head spin, so I look up articles about the poems to ground me.
And then the articles make my head spin, and I go to Facebook, the comforting solidity of its ephemeral nonsense and muchsense.
And then I think I must document this process of waking and sleeping and reading and reading about reading and reading to not have to read.
And this is called writing. Somehow well into afternoon, the thunder of afternoon showers like a distant booming clock, and yet morning.
Because the brain is new from sleep.
As if each day were a life and each morning spent learning how to live again. Ah, yes. This is how I feed myself.
Last night, full of wine tears, I wanted to write an essay about how there is no suitable prophylactic to avoid the memory of trauma.
Because I file that trauma under “rape” obviously, but also “lavender shower gel” and “aphasia” and snatches of dialogue like “I promise I’ll be a good boy” and how I learned the hard way that when someone feels the need to reassure you that he’s a good guy, he’s probably not.
What I mean is that an index of triggers would include every detail from every iteration of every possible trauma and that, my friends, is like writing a scene description for the whole earth’s autopsy, a list of contents of the whole earth’s pockets, like the wise comedian’s 1:1 scale map of the earth, impossible to fold.
This is the mind of morning, the amnesia of dream consolidation, the mind’s braiding of synaptic routes to last.
I think I am awake now. The dream of whatever I was writing, forgotten.