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Waking Up I remember the blue fuzzes my blanket left on me overnight. My too-washed cotton sheets and my too-used blanket provided the comfort I needed to sleep. To begin the morning, though, I needed the hard sensations that day brought. The cris-crossed coarse cloth of my desk chair pressed itself into my buttocks. Each weave pushing upward to imprint its memory upon my cheeks, building an image of itself so that my skin became a mirror of its pattern. As I leaned my back against its back, the process began anew, and the skin on my back was marked with the bumps and divots of my seat. The plastic chairmat’s uneven surface stuck to my feet, and as I kicked them about, they released a subtle “click-click” sound. This, accompanied by the periodic squeaks made by my chair, made up my morning melody. Click click-click. Squeak. Click. Squeaaaaaak. Breakfast was found in the lemon drops I found hiding under my monitor, probably left there by my housemate. Finding them milder than I expected, I bit into them to release as much flavor as could be found within. Click-click. CRUNCH-squeaaak. Click. My nearsightedness was complemented by the dimness of a mid-fall morning at about six o’clock. Between the two, my visual impression of the room was made to be a series grey swirls in different shades. Putting on my glasses, I found them smeared with oil. My vision now consisted of swirls of off-grey colors. I wiped the lenses on my sheet and now found the room to consist of solid shapes upon replacing my glasses. My sensory inspection of the morning was almost complete. I prepared to draw my first purposeful breath of the day. Leaning far back in the chair, I stretched my arms over my head and arched my back, forcing my lungs to expand and pull in the morning. I spat it back out. This morning was tainted with the half-eaten chicken left in my desk trashcan. |
All original material © 2003 Erika Salomon.
