Cloud Day

atemporal
adjective
1. free from limitations of time.

I would like more than anything to be, at this very moment, atemporal. OK, while I’m at, incorporeal too.

It’s one of those mornings when The Amazing Bob and I would wearily smile at each other, him in his big Poppa chair, me at my desk, wishing we’d remembered to attain a state 'o' being akin to free form, sentient, floaty clouds. We’d tumble across the sky contrasting and comparing the works of Jónas Viðar,  Erró and Max Beckmann. We’d wonder, once more, why is Ferlinghetti not our fave poet? We’d hover over Fenway while he watches his beloved Soxies and I read my trashy mystery/sci fi paperback. We’d float over to Wally’s and listen in on whatever cat’s playing. Will Jason Palmer be blowing his horn? Will we hit a Super Funk night (which’d thrill me to bits. TAB? Not so much)

What up with the cloud wishing this AM? Last night was one of those nearly sleep-free nights. I finally nodded off around four or so only to have Coco decide, (seemingly moments later but – to be fair to my little princess warrior – it was after six) that I’d had quite enough laying about, not feeding or playing with her time.

She mounted my hip and began pacing, heavily, up and down the length ‘o’ me. Oof! I believe we’ve discussed, have we not, the bizarre phenomenon of small cats weighing piffling amounts at noon and metric tons at 6AM.

Hard to be pissed at her when:
A) I had to get up anyway
B) she’s so fucking cute!

In the middle of last nights hardly-any-sleep-a-thon,  I was struck by a deep, (cavernous, in point of fact) cupcake craving. Jamo too (it’d help me drift off to Sleepy-Bye Land, right?) Not indulging these Wee Hour yearnings is hard, motherfucking hard work. I almost always win these battles though. This despite seductively waggling left over birthday cake (a friend’s bairn) sitting on the kitchen counter. Yeah, YEA me – I’m a dieting champion (she mouths while rolling her eyes hard enough to break the sky).

Last night? I felt it was an achievement of awe inspiring proportions that I indulged in, not cake or cookies but four dried apricots (at eight calories a whack!) and less than one shot of the Irish (~ 60 cal). Self control – I’m practically the patron saint of this shit.

Now that I’m up ’n at ‘em (sorta, kinda), I should suit up and hit the Y. This early hour is,  possibly, my best chance for snagging a lane in the pool or even just getting an unpopulated corner for H2O aerobicizing.