Sunday morning. How’d I come back to the stereotype of lazy Sunday mornings? I’m grateful for it though. We had a good weekend of shows, full-band romps that were marred by Heather and Rowan still being in recovery-mode from the Canadian Ick they both brought back from Folk Music Ontario. I myself am having a sniffly morning, but I often have those… allergic to mornings, most-like.
An unseasonably hot Saturday has dissolved into a far more appropriate Sunday, grey and damp. Leaves are heavy on the ground and I’ve got the sudden stream of notifications on my phone and laptop that tell me that the rest of the world is late in rising too, and flatteringly, everyone’s first thought is of ME.
My limbs are a little exhausted, my joints ache. Kristen’s coming down the stairs and the cat is quick to follow. Maybe SHE can get him to eat? He’s still a Very Large Cat but I had a nightmare last night where he emerged from the basement hollowed out and brittle, horrifyingly thin.
I had an emotional jag a couple of nights ago, wending my way through traffic – an awkwardly strewn pile of road kill, probably a raccoon but it could’ve been a cat. The horror that such an animal must feel, last minute incomprehending panic, heart-racing and bright sourceless lights. Hopefully it was quick. The nightmare of such a pain or panic happening at the hands of someone you’d grown to trust.
Tangled with thoughts of pets and parents. It’s all better when I’m getting enough sleep to keep such intrusive narratives tightly under control. Better to just get up on the stage and play it out. Throw it out to people in an audience. Push it out of my fingertips into the world around me.
Just let it go.
