Where, oh where, oh where, is my perfect woman!

“Perfection has one grave defect:
 it is apt to be dull.”

William Somerset Maugham

“In all my life, I have never met anyone that has had the perfect relationship. Whether it be a relationship with themselves, their country, their friends, family or significant others -- nothing is ever perfect. ...

So, if perfection doesn't exist, then what types of relationships should we strive for? A satisfying one? A stable one? More comfort than conflict?

On the subject of relationships, a good friend of mine always says, "You must be challenged." It's way too easy to slide through life un-phased and un-attached. A solid relationship is one that always keeps you on your toes. It takes work. It takes commitment. And, at the end of the day, you're a better person because of it. Is it perfect? Never. But you don't want it to be."  From the film “Trailer Park-the perfect relationship”

Some conversations are unforgettable.  I recall one with a friend, who a few years ago, cheerfully proclaimed his new girlfriend as "perfect.”

“No red flags. Not one,” he said, after resolving on January 1st that he wanted to find his mate in 2006 and, lo and behold, found Her on January 7th.

Well, he admitted, “She doesn't come to a complete stop at traffic signals, but that is a 'minor thing.”

“Wow.”  I was almost speechless.

It took a few weeks for me to erupt with my pithily succinct inquiry, “Perfect?”

He clarified, “Well, we see each other as perfect, so we are perfect for each other.”

“Wow,” I replied.

I don't think I've ever met anyone I thought was perfect, although I have known someone who said I was perfect.

It felt weird. 

“I find imperfection the most interesting thing about a person”

Anonymous

Maybe new lovers sense perfection in each other in those oxytocinated blooms of lust. Nature is brilliant, probably providing this relative blindness just long enough for a male and female to lure, mate, and reproduce.  Then they/we roll over in boredom. Or she, disgusted, bites off his head and/or he, feeling frantic and un-free, runs away, leaving her to the tiger. 

I appreciate my friend's comment about his new woman's perfection.  It provoked me to revisit the notion of perfection, which has likely defined my own way of being since I was a wee rug rat.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, a precious little girl in Amarillo, Texas “stole” some candy cigarettes from the corner market. Her (my) mother made her return them and apologize to the shop owner for being “bad.”

I was mortified at my quite innocent error and ordered apology—until that moment I had no concept of good and bad.  My mother remains incredulous that I can even remember the incident.

“You were two years old. You could barely walk, certainly not talk,” she said.

But a two-year-old can understand disappointing her parent with her first "mistake.”

Daddy, a few years later, lambasted my imperfect penmanship. Signing my name onto valentines for kindergarten classmates, I kept crossing the N's backwards.  I still hear my German father’s stern, loud—unsuccessful—coaching….and then standing in a corner while my parents chatted with an insurance salesman at the kitchen table a few feet away.

I –humiliated--was certain they were discussing, not actuarial tables, but my ridiculous N’s.

  “This is the very perfection of a man,
to find out his own imperfections.”

Saint Augustine

Sometime in puberty, we learn to compare our imperfect selves with our miraculously perfect peers.  I believe this happened to me when Mama came to hear me sing with my junior high choir.  I know exactly where it happened—in a long lineoleum hallway lined with steel lockers.  I know exactly what I was wearing -- the most adorable, new denim A-line skirt.  I thought myself quite “mod”  until after the concert, Mama noticed a quite curvy cheerleader wearing her quite tight mini-skirt.

“Too bad you can't wear a skirt like that, DeNeice.”  Of course, I heard, “Too bad you’re a candy thief who makes backwards N’s and wears square skirts and aren’t perfect—like her.”

“The mother is only really the mistress 
of her daughter ...as a model of wisdom
and type of perfection.” 

Alexandre Dumas Père

It  makes sense that I'm not like my male friend who measures perfect sunsets with a number 10...and who found his perfect woman in less than a week.

If there is perfection in my life, it comes one moment at a time, when I am so present that I am absolutely overwhelmed by the magic in the right here and right now.  In these special, real moments, the imperfect past and pluperfect future evaporate.  

These sweet, rare moments are bliss…as are the shadowy times where something or someone breaches my comfortable edges.  Then, I can risk discomfort and imperfection— to experience a sublime moment of extra-ordinariness.

The sages  seem also to prefer this treacherous, unfinished, imperfect adventure:

“A beautiful thing is never perfect.”  Proverb

“Perfectionism is slow death”  Hugh Prather

“Out of perfection nothing can be made.”   Joseph Campbell

“The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection.”   George Orwell

“Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.”  Salvador Dalí

“The greater the emphasis on perfection, the further it recedes”   Haridas Chaudhuri

“Perfectionism is the enemy of creation.”   John Updike

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.” Anne Lamott

“The farther a man knows himself to be free from perfection,

the nearer he is to it” Gerard Groote

“A good friend who points out mistakes and imperfections …

is to be respected as if he reveals a secret of hidden treasure.”  Buddha

ADDENDUM:  Sometime between the 12th and 18th months of his perfect relationship, my manfriend found a number of unforgivable flaws in his perfect woman and they  ended the perfect pair bonding soon after she helped him set up what became his groovy bachelor pad. 

Without pause and with predictable masculine "kill the dear" focus, he began turbo-dating and reported a few months later that he was “intense” with one of his four girlfriends. He did not say she was perfect. 

ADDENDUM ADDENDUM:  The "intense" relationship ended.  Her successor had Big ("great, huge") Positives but, alas,  "more negatives than positives."

And so the quest continued -- continues-- for his illusive, perfect butterfly.
 

Dear Santa: I want a blow-up doll for Christmas

"She's like a porcelain doll. She sets me on fire."

--Lieutenant Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton

in Madame Butterfly

           

The Muse's Salon

   FEB. 9, 1999 

             

           Elmer (not his real name) and I rented the video "Shooting Fish" last night.  In this snappy buddy romp, two winsome hustlers swindle over 50,000 pounds from an inexhaustible supply of veddy propah British suckers.  Their scam with a bunch of blow-up dolls reminded me of my encounter with the adult inflatables a few years ago.

             

              I had run into an old girlfriend at the vet's.  She was planning a huge surprise party for her ex-husband 's 60th birthday and was overwhelmed. I offered to help.  She seemed relieved and leaned over to whisper, "I need one of those blow-up dolls."

             

              An odd request.  But Carla's relationship with her ex was far from ordinary. Despite the passage of a decade, she clearly was not emancipated from their 20-year marriage. She had found a particularly wily way to watch over her former spouse.  Their divorce decree mandated "joint custody" of the couple's six pedigreed puppies.  So the hunting dogs lived at the big house with their master, while Carla enjoyed unlimited visitation rights.  She visited daily.

             

              As Carla handed me some cash for the doll, she issued a stern command, "It must look like me."

             

              I knew the import of my task and decided to visit a local emporium advertised as "the world's largest adult super-market."  I parked at the edge of the parking lot by a trash dumpster and prayed no one would recognize the red Corvette with the license plate "CARGO."  

             

              I'd never been inside an adult bookstore and was as jittery as a teenage boy buying "protection" for the first time.  As I entered the immense warehouse, I tried to not turn or lift my head, to not move my hands or eyes, to not see other shoppers, to not see row after row after row of porn videos and sex toys. I tried to not notice a very long pegboard wall with hundreds and hundreds of dildos. (Dildoes?  Where is Dan Quayle when you need him.)

             

              "Everyone is watching me," I thought.

             

              I was paranoid and hot and beginning to sweat as I approached the elderly clerk behind a counter. She was finishing a vibrator sale and explaining to the clean-cut young couple that the product was non-returnable.  Her hands shook as she installed batteries, rocked the switch, and placed the humming wand against her wrinkled wrist 

             

              "Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!"

             

              "Wanna see how it feels?" she offered the young woman. Speechless, the young man grabbed the device and his consort's arm as they left the store.

             

              "Uh-uh-uh, " I stuttered.  " Uh, it…it's not for me, but I need one of those dolls. F-f-for my  friend."

             

              The old woman pointed to the farthest corner of the store, and I tried to remain inconspicuous as I began the journey there.  Mid-way, she screamed at me, "And don't open them dolls!" 

             

             Quickly, I crouched to hide behind a display of Kamasutra potions. Then duckwalked to the distant corner.  Finally there, I found a dozen cartons of the dolls, with full-color photos of sultry nude models on the covers.  But all sealed tight.

             

              I looked to see if Bad Barbie had been opened and heard the clerk's loud unsubtle admonition again, "Lady, I said don't open them dolls!"  

             

              But there were no cellophane peep windows in the boxes. No way to see what the dolls looked like.  One of them cost almost $200 though -- it assured anatomical correctness and sensual reality.  I had seen enough movies to know that blow-up dolls didn't look anything like the vixens on the boxes.  The dolls were cartoonish inflatables with flailing legs and arms and with several suggestively-placed hollows.

             

              I knew that if I was to acquire one that resembled Carla, it simply must have black hair.  And the only models with black hair were either Asian or African-American. Carla was quite Anglo. 

             

              Just as I was ready to surrender and withdraw, I saw it.  A plain white box with bold black letters in all caps spelling "PARTY DOLL."  Priced at $29 and promising to be "the life of every party-- public or private." 

        

         Sold!  To the bad lady in the back of the store!  I had no idea what the thing looked like… if it was even female or human.

             

              Days later, Carla called to report the party's success and to thank me for "the absolutely perfect doll-- she looked JUST like me!"

             

              I told my sweetheart the story last night as he was falling asleep after the movie,  " Party Doll was perfect.  It had short straight black hair and was petite."

     

      "Had no teeth?" he mumbled groggily.

     

      " I said it was PETITE!"

     

      Lights out.

     

      "…and it had no teeth."

"In West Virginia yesterday, a man was arrested for stealing several blow-up dolls. Reportedly, police didn't have any trouble catching the man 

because he was completely out of breath." 

Conan O'Brian

 CLICK: FUNNY! White Water Rafting on Blowup Dolls

2009 Postscript. Blow-up dolls can be boundless fun at your next party!  Put him/her in a classy top hat for New Year's, in a diaper as Cupid, spray-painted kelly green for St. Patty's, draped in Mardi Gras beads, as a sexy Santa or elf.  


But before you surf over to the Frederick's website for costume ideas, check these tips: 
* Do not blow up the doll in a hot place.

* Buy the doll early enough to organize the costume changes, an impressive set, and that thrilling script.

* If you're contributing the doll for a friend's party entertainment, make sure they (your friend, not the doll) wouldn't be embarrassed... unless it's a surprise party or you want to embarrass them, and lastly

* Do not use crazy glue on the doll.  We've heard that attempts to attach anatomical appendages can melt the plastic.

I Want A Blow-Up Doll For Christmas

(c)1992 by Eric Brown
CLICK: LISTEN TO THIS HOLIDAY CLASSIC!"I Want A Blow-Up Doll For Christmas (c)1992 by Eric Brown

I want a blow-up doll for Christmas.

I want a girl I can inflate.
I saw one like I want in a girlie magazine --

The one that I hide between my mattress and box springs.

I want a blow-up doll for Christmas.

Hurry up, Santa, I can't wait!

I want a blow-up doll for Christmas,

'Cause I know that she'll be the perfect mate.

She must be heavy-duty to resist wear and tear.

She'll come with a special set of sexy underwear.

I'll dress her like a hooker, then dress her for the prom,

Then let her air out, fold her up and hide her from my Mom.

She won't talk so I won't have to call her on the phone.

I won't have to comb her hair because it's printed on.

Her lips will be shaped like an "O" and painted ruby red.

I'll have to hide her from my friends -- she'll be a real airhead.

Oh, I want a blow-up doll for Christmas.

I want a girl with vinyl flesh.

She must have a pretty face up above her neck.

The rest of her body must be anatomically correct.

I want a blow-up doll for Christmas.

I think I'll call her Judy or Beth.

I want a blow-up doll for Christmas,

'Cause real girls, they scare me half to death

 AND FINALLY, CLICK: Trailer for "Lars & The Real Girl"

..if it's purple, this must be erotica

In Wisconsin, if you win a girl a giant, purple rhinoceros,

she puts out.  --Michael Kelso, “That ‘70s Show”

It was just a purple bra that fit perfectly.  It was not unspoken commitment.  It was not a pledge to love until he no longer felt love.  It was not even a knowing glance.  It was just a purple bra that fit perfectly.

It cost $5 less because he was on the Victoria's Secret mailing list and received a coupon that would expire soon.  He usually bought their sweet scented lotions with the racy names, but she told him the heavy scent congested her sinuses. In truth, she did not want to smell like all his other lovers, all those women whose feet and hands and backs and more he massaged like prayer ritual. 

So he went to their shoppe in the mall, where in wild caveman fantasies he delighted and disrobed the pink-cheeked virgins and the red hot mamas, where he threw them wet and ready atop big round mounds of panties--skimpy brazilian thongs, playful polka dot bikinis, hipsters covered in red Corvettes, and conservative white briefs announcing "Luscious" and "Lovely" and "Lucky" like new days of an erotic week.  In his imagination, he took a young clerk's reluctant curiosity behind the hot pink Victorian cash register on the hot pink Victorian carpet.  In his imagination, he easily unlocked their sweet secrets behind easy dressing room drapes, sliding so easily apart, for him.

And he bought her--the recent lover-- a purple bra that fit perfectly.

He attached lusty post it notes to it.  She didn't recall if the sticky yellow memos proclaimed his love.  She knew they didn't whisper fidelity, because he had promised always to be fickle.  His quick scribbles probably appreciated her softness, snaring her affections like the purple bra that circled her roundness so perfectly. 

Hey. Did everything just taste purple for a second? --Fry, Futurama

From Indian summer to winter solstice, she stretched her self before him and invited his kisses upon her life.  She let him lick the lusciousness of her body, from purple toenails to juicy purple core. Everything in Life appeared precious purple through her rosy eyes.

Then one day after he applauded her puffy purple sweater, he reminded her how he hungered for other colors.  

So she left him.  Speedily she filled four ugly brown paper bags with all the things which she he had carried there, things which he insisted had brought him joy. She removed every hint of her every having been there.  


Except one.  


She left behind the purple bra that fit so perfectly it made her cry.  She slid it under his pillow where they had often tucked her saucy panties for his private pleasure. 

The woman who was the happy girl with the beautiful purple bedroom wanted no purple in her life.  She wondered why lilacs and violets and irises instead were not red and pink and orange.  She cursed the healing benefits of dark grapes, swore merlot and cabernet bitter and staining.  She warned that deadly passion is purple, that Batman’s joking arch villain is purple, that the ghastly peripatetic dinosaur Barney is purple.

She prayed for the blackness on her bruised heart to fade fast through that cruel color into blue, then green, then yellow, then to disappear into the pink radiance of her playful spirit, before it was tempted again by a purple bra that fit perfectly. She wanted the color expunged, purged, banned.

Then she remembered The Color Purple and Whoopie Goldberg’s battered and unfalteringly sunny Shug who proclaimed, “I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it.” 

And she smiled and decided to paint her toenails purple.

DeNeice Kenehan is a hedonist, a romantic, a singer, a photographer,  a decent cook, and an occasional raconteur.

Insinuate Broadly

So you think of me when you hear that song, 

Well, I see you in moon and stars, and

when cauliflower clouds conspire over distant mountains, and

when little grey birds make music in fallen leaves, and

when ancient stones peek from secret depths, so

think of me when she 

speaks of sky or earth, or

whispers secrets of you and she, or 

when her eyes meet yours, or

when her fingers brush your skin, or

when your squeals combine in harmonic rapture, and

when you kiss her tears, 

their salt is mine, and

when champagne bubbles tickle tongues, they are

our giggles in paradise ethers, so

see my smile when you please her, and
when your sweaty sauces merge, and

when you cannot catch your breath, and

when your heart pounds in your throat, 

feel me, and

when your mouth samples hers, 

taste mine, and

when you enter her, 

imagine my sweetness, and
when you hear crickets and coyotes and false dawn's rooster crow,

hear my voice, and

when you walk, 

feel my bare, graceful feet in your stride, and

when your hands work or play,

see my elegant, perfect fingers, and

when your tongue laps water or wine or cream, and

when your teeth nip apples or grapes or pears, and

when your lips meet cheese or almonds, or crunchy cabbage or anything, 

we feed upon each other, like

starving caterpillars destined for butterflight passion, so

when you speak or chew or swallow or kiss, or

you notice any mouth, 

my lips are on you, and

see my curves in the moon's, and

spot my body in every circle, from

hot sun to dotty bug, and

when the air sweeps your skin, 

it is my soft hair, and

when you bathe, 

it is the water of my passion, so
smell me in your bed, and 

when you retire, 

my hot thighs pillow your sleepy head, so

when you slumber, and I, 

haunted by you, 

lie sleepless, 

dream of me, and know 

I am the secret shade 

that heals your exhaustion after a morning ascent, and 

I am the pulse of every lazy afternoon love poem, and  

I hide in prickly cholla blossom and fuzzy nebula ring, and

I am delicate kisses on the nape of your neck in the breeze, so 

I am everything that touches you

everywhere and 

everything you touch, so

let us love on the sand, and

under trees, and

in the chapparel, and

in icy storm, and

in barren desert, so

you find me in every place and clime, and

let us make love 

from dawn to dusk, and

from sunset to sunrise, so

you remember 

me in every moment, and 
let us argue and rant and sob and fret, so

you recognize me in your angst, and  

when ecstasy swallows darkness, 

glimpse me in the shadow, and  

when we are torn apart by

proximity, 

hear me in the white space, and  
when everything fits, and

is beautiful, and

well, 

think of me. 

Insinuate broadly.

(c)

A Gratitude Exercise

Happiness comes from focusing on what you have, 

not on what's missing.

Andrew Matthews

I posted on Facebook this morning a sweet little parable teaching appreciation-- a story about a young boy who happily wore one sock every day because that is what he had.

http://www.seashell.com.au/PastNewsletter.asp?IssueID=59

My wise multi-talented FB friend and muse Jill Badonsky commented--she suggested an exercise where we list things that we have in our lives... then name it our "I Want List."  [Check Jill out here:

http://www.themuseisin.com/

So yoo hoo, Jill et al (Latin for "and others"), here goes today's exercise in gratitude:  

My "I Have List"

1. Good health

2. Freedom. I am embarrassed to confess that I usually take my civil liberties for granted, but for some reason, I am reminded right now that I'm pretty lucky to live in the United States of America.

3. Family & so many dear friends.  I won't even attempt to name them, because I don't want to forget anyone...but I will identify the most loving, giving, supportive partner I could have imagined--Robbie Smith. We never run out of stories or emotions or ideas to share.

4. Loving pets Peanut, Chewy, Frankie

5. Beautiful home in a beautiful community

6. Fun, vibrant, gorgeous city of San Diego

7. Wise, loving, entertainingly weird parents-- Ed & Edna--who co-created a great childhood full of fantastic memories

8.  A fine, very fun baby sister with her own fine, fun, great kids--Kay-Kay, Johnny, precious nephews Britty and Conner, irresistibly cute niece Jordan

9. Bird music every morning when I awaken and if I remember to keep the feeders full, birds right at the kitchen window

10. Hummingbirds all over the yard, dashing between the red blossoms and pomegranate tree limbs

11. Flowers in my back and front yards, all over the place! even along freeways here

12. Orange trees with oranges on them year round. I got so excited the first time I saw this, moving from the desert.

13.  My new dream car--red convertible named  "R*DIANT"

14.  A working mind, good sense of humor, kindness

15. Cell phones, computers, televisions,  my iPod, iTunes. Technology! oh, and the dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, vacuum cleaner

16. Running water, electricity, utilities!

17.  Ma Nature, all the beautiful, exquisite places I've seen, smelled, heard, and will experience in the future

18. Planes, boats, trains, buses, cars that have taken me to fun adventures I'd have missed without such miraculous transportation modes

19. OMG!  I cannot believe I have forgotten Food, Glorious, Food!  (The lapband is working!)

20. which brings me to, the miracles of modern medicine, e.g. my lapband that moderates my eating, contact lenses, dental veneers, antibiotics, thyroid pills, hormone replacement therapy. My life has been saved once by a doctor who stopped post-tonsillectomy hemmorhage.   And for my mama's medicines that keep her alive and vibrant at almost 78.

21.  Music, music, music, my love, my love, my love. And the fabulous pianist & my wonderful friend Tom Barabas to inspire and direct my learning curve.

22. Learning to SING, my childhood dream

23. Teachers--the ones I cherish. Greg Enriquez, for teaching me how to sing. Seth Riggs, for teaching Greg how to teach.  Rhonda Carlson, for reminding me how much fun it is to perform for others.  The English professor who urged me to change my major to journalism.  All the wonderful teachers who kept me on the path of learning, especially Mrs. Hubbard, my third grade teacher who thought I was "too bossy" but "brilliant."   I don't know if she said brilliant, but she was convinced I could skip the fourth grade.

24. A curiosity and joy to learn

25. Twenty-five years of a great marriage to Johnny Kenehan and his wonderful folks, John Sr. and my best friend all those years, his adorable mom, Mary Kenehan

26.  Some pretty fun careers--first as a young journalist merging into public relations and promotional work, then international trade work, now singing.

27.  A glorious and varied university education in Amarillo, Houston and Denver. I just love being on any college campus. I love the buildings, the smell of the books, the bustle of the students, the mental exhuberance of the learning environment.

28. I am proud of being an attorney. Licensed and not practicing. But I appreciate the education and knowledge that brought.  And the badge of diligent study it represents.

29.  Financial security.  I am glad I can afford to live in a home I am buying. I am glad I can afford to buy health insurance.  I am glad that I can be generous to others.  I am glad I can afford an occasional vacation.

30.  Consciousness.   I think I am not a rock.  And I appreciate this. Although I may become part of a rock... or a star....or both...

31.  Awareness that this list (of desires and blessings) can continue ....forever.

32. Like I forgot to list movies. I love movies!  Love, love, love them!!!

33. Especially "Amelie," which I've seen five times. So far.

34. Life's ever-expanding variety. Isn't it interesting that we keep finding new recipes.  New ways to satisfy our sweet teeth.  And new Best Songs of the Year. And new Best New Artists of the Year.

35.  Change.

36. The seasons.  I miss the drama of changing seasons, but I love having vivid memory of cozy winters and welcome springs in Denver and chaotic summers on the Texas Panhandle.

37. My new church family, and I am increasingly enjoying my chuch songleading job.  The new choir Joyful Noize is especially becoming FUN.  And I am excited to sing with A Little Noize, my new backup singers, this weekend.  Who'd a thunk when I decided to learn to sing that I'd actually "get it done."

38.  Fridge and cabinets full of healthy, yummy food

39.  Closets and dressers full of fun clothing, shoes, hats, scarves, doodads, whatchmacallits and pantyhose I rarely wear

40. Girlie stuff like scrunchies, nail polish, lipstick, mascara, you get the drift

41.  Palm trees outside my office window doing the hula (the trees are dancing, not the window)

42.  A piano calling me to come practice intervals for ear training class today and a jazz jam with friends tonight

43. Rachel Zoe and Top Chef and Flipping Out and the ridiculous un-Real Housewives of Atlanta and New York and Orange County (in short, bravo for Bravo-TV)

44. Keen senses. Love touching my pooch's curly little body... feeling the warmth of the sun on my bare skin...hearing crickets on Jill's website...seeing her whimsical drawings... smelling the breakfast pancakes ...

45.  to be continued

...and my "I Want List" 

( see above )

Don't go back to sleep

The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you.

Don't go back to sleep.

Jalaluddin Rumi

"I wake up with the sun, bright and new.  I listen to the sun,

and the early morning dew. Dew doesn't make any noise."

-- Carey's Brother, Spotswood (1991)

It's Monday but she tastes as sweet as Friday.  Because it's very early still, and the new work week has not spilled onto her first child. I wish morning lasted longer. I treasure the solitude. I relish these dim hours before aurora awakens. I savor it like the coffee I will make soon.

I love her gentle touch. Her music. Her early birds are like last night's stars, only sparkling with sound.  Babies crying for breakfast, fathers shouting their addresses to one another, mamas already busy tidying the twiggy nest.  The birds own dawn the way the frogs used to own evening.

They are a whistling, chirping mixed chorus.  Some rattle like snakes. Others mock the click-click-click of industrial sprinklers.  If the evening ends with a lullaby, the day begins with nature's noisy rap.

I awoke early today, before five because I was still revved up on yesterday afternoon's designer coffee. For awhile, I share the house only with its inanimate inhabitants-- clock ticks, the rumble of the heater, the creaking of stairs.  By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs though, the two toms have begun their begging ritual. This one chants for kibble, that one to be outdoors.

The kitchen door slides open to my backyard stadium of rowdy winged visitors. The whiny tabby tiptoes slowly on the damp concrete, protecting the fragile silence with his fuzzy slippers.  I slip behind him, walk barefoot, and quickly, across the chilly patio stones toward the dog's gate. 

The two collies are ready to romp but stiff from sleep. They yawn and stretch before emerging to the grassy yard for hugs from the human.  The baby female's softness invites my touch, and the older male is jealous of my imbalanced display of affection.  He slides between my legs and I scratch his hairy hips while he marches.

A potted palm hulas in the tender breeze. Its fronds tickle the air, gently, like a lover's light fingers across the silky skin of morning. Lazy. Erratic. Erotic.  A short swipe. A longer wave, then resting again in the sleepy stillness. The whole neighborhood effuses dreaminess.

Slowly, the sun begins to powder the neighborhood in pastels--hazy grays, hinted blues, delicate pinks, pale corals.  The cool crispness remembers childhood camping trips.  I sniff for the smell of frying bacon and wonder as I return to the kitchen if anyone eats pork anymore… and if Glade has test-marketed a camping scent.  The sprinklers interrupt my silly digressions with a morning hiss.

Inside again, I initiate my ceremonial coffee grinding, and the rich nutty fragrance infuses the room.  Mr. Coffee turns magic bean dust and filtered water into a dark energizing elixir.  I pour my first cuppa and click on the tiny counter-top television… then just as instinctively scold myself for sinning against the Universe by rejecting the rest of the morning's sweet gifts. Endless infomercials and stock reports save me from the mindless machine that steals so much inner life.  I quickly turn it off. 

The churning "ommmm" of the frig restores a meditative mood, and I notice the percussive clicks of my leathery sandals on the wooden floor, observe the gliding and tapping of my ink pen on paper, and ponder this acute sensual alertness. It is nice that life lets us do the day's dessert first.

I wonder about this voice of my homonculus which speaks so poetically before life's cocky schedules demand attention. And just as I pose the question, I hear the first street sound, a car rushing to an early appointment.

Next, a noisy prop engine in the sky.  And in mere moments, more cars.  And the sound of rushing water upstairs. Too soon, I must share the leftovers called "the day" with others.

Now it feels like Monday.

Time to unload the dishwasher. To put away yesterday's sundries. To plant the last petunias.  To return the weekend's rented videos before noon or pay $3.98 each per day.  To walk on the treadmill and ride the stationary bike and burn 275 calories.  To empty the coffee into the thirsty thermos.  Glug glug glug, it echoes.  


Time to dismantle the pineapple's spiky armor, to remove the banana's rubbery suit, to manipulate the slippery mango, to slice the orange, and to bite into the brashness of day.

Time for the noise of appointments and meetings and decisions and errands and production and schedules and perhaps even a few playful romps.  


I enjoy work, and I love to play, but I long to protract the peaceful joy of morning into the cluttered din of the day.  To carry her calmly into the bright afternoon.    To hear music in the clattery copy machine and dishwasher.  To sense stillness in the traffic jam.  To cherish the technicolor day and make morning a metaphor.

When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food, and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself.--Tecumseh, Shawnee Chief

“Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day!
For it is Life, the very Life of Life.
In its brief course lie all the
Verities and Realities of your Existence.
The Bliss of Growth,
The Glory of Action,
The Splendor of Beauty;
For Yesterday is but a Dream,
And To-morrow is only a Vision;
But To-day well lived makes
Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.
Look well therefore to this Day!
Such is the Salutation of the Dawn!”
Kalidasa, widely regarded 
as the greatest Sanskrit poet/dramatist