Some Days, the Cat Wins

It's a tricky business knowing the exact amount of coffee needed to fuel a writing session. Too little and I'm mushy and sluggish. Too much and I'm distracted by having to get up and pee every ten minutes. Plus, every time I get up, the cat steals my spot. Every.time.

My drug of choice is Cinnabon Classic Cinnamon Roll Coffee with a generic brand Caramel Chocolate creamer. It's more of a dessert than coffee, really. Some day, I'll put a dollop of whipped cream on top to see if it's as good as I imagine. Maybe a dusting of cinnamon too. A reward for sticking with the messy task of putting thoughts to paper.  Whether my own or those of some poor slob from my imaginings being tortured for my and my readers' cheap thrills. My small attempt at playing a god. Would their worlds be light or dark? Seedy or romantic? Will someone die? I hadn't yet decided. (Insert sinister laugh here.)

I dance with my muse, but I can't hear the tempo of the music. Fast or slow? I end up stepping on toes, so I stop. Take a break. Ignore the last apple fritter and grab a self-righteous banana instead. Remove cat from chair. Start again.

Still, the words won't match the vision. There's a vague, blurred idea that refuses to come into focus. The flickering light sputters out. Back to the kitchen. I eat the damn apple fritter, licking my fingers. No apologies. Remove cat from chair.

An hour later. Five sentences typed. Five sentences deleted. Coffee gone. The page remains blank. Naked, white, and rude. Oh well, there's always tomorrow. Finally, I give up my seat to the cat. She looks smug. Although with a cat, it's hard to be sure. Isn't that their default setting?

In Pieces

I was in pieces. The broken shards of myself scattered here and there. Torn into bits by demanding claws, taking what they wanted for themselves. Outside of myself, looking inward. Seeing the carnage, feeling the pressure. Marrow sucked dry. Nothing left to give. Eggshell bones rattled in the dust. Escape whispered to me, touching my brow. I answered.

A shake and a whistle, and the shattered bits come running back to me. Clutching at the jagged little pieces for dear life, I gather my companion and head for the trail.

As we drive northward, the ugly, functional buildings soon give way to towering trees and dots of wildflowers that pepper the tall grass. Our special place waits for us. Calling our names. We listen, we obey. Unleashing ourselves, stepping forward into that first step. Aw, that first step. Exhaling. Inhaling. The tightness in my chest loosening with each breath. My lungs fully expanding again. The sharp blue-green perfume of the evergreens reaches my nose. My companion’s nose is to the ground, taking it all in. Tail wagging.

Feet sink into the rich, dark earth and toes burrow into the plush grass. A carpet of summer cushioning our steps. The chaotic jungle buzzing within my head begins to shift, slowly, to what lies before me. Smoothing out the wrinkles in my frazzled mind. Sandals exchanged for hiking boots, we begin. Seeking out the dusty little trail under the deep verdant canopy of the familiar oaks and pines, woven with sweet honeysuckle, that will lead me back to myself. One quiet footstep at a time, as the music of the finches and sparrows cheer me on. The red-bellied woodpecker drumming along. Tapping out a pace.  The song of the forest flows through my veins, sustaining me as surely as oxygen. My cathedral of renewal.  Once again, my spirit made whole.

T. Liptak