Free Write Vol. 2

Up late again- a couple of chores to take care of and I'm expecting to call a young lady in an hour or so. Made myself some coffee- both to keep me up and because I love the taste. Jamaica Mountain Blue for those that are interested, although I'm mad because I made it too watery after making it perfectly this morning. Watery like the sludge I use to drink at Kroger a little bit before I got off at night. It gets you through midnight, got me to my next job handling packages for 6 hours straight for 9.50 an hour.

At night, I always have my most vivid thoughts. Perhaps it's mostly because I'm tired. You know how right before you go to sleep your brain starts to rearrange your thoughts into something coherent and the images of the day drift aimlessly across your head, slowing your mind down to a soothing slumber- making your eyes slide shut gracefully. I guess that's what it is, my mind is beginning to make that transformation. It's getting everything in order so I can think pragmatic thoughts during working hours, leave the idealism for the section of the day that naturally contains our most outlandish dreams.

But there's something else too, something more than just the biological effects of my brain's preparation to shut down. Something special about this place on the outskirts of Nashville. Something special about being at home that makes me think, makes me want to write. I don't get this feeling while I'm in New York, there are too many sounds and lights. My sense are naturally attracted to them- they feed my head with all kinds of information. If I were to think like I am right now, my mind would be overloaded.

So it has to be the night time quiet that does it for me. A place and time where I can be alone with my thoughts I remember first moving here, the nights were endless, they dragged on for centuries. As time slowed down, my awareness, of myself, of certain sensations began to heighten. And I felt compelled to describe them in some fashion. But not just in my head, they couldn't just stay bottled up, bouncing around like carbon molecules in a shaken up soda can. So I write, try my best to describe what exactly is going on in my head as I stay up late, when my senses are at their most raw.

Like how tranquil the sound of a dishwasher is as it switches cycles, from "pots and pans" to "normal wash." If you're far enough away it sounds like the gentle sloshing of waves of seawater against the side of a boat.
Or how sensual it feels drinking a warm cup of coffee at night. I guess it reminds me of long road trips and late nights that turn into early mornings sitting at the far table (or if I'm lucky, a booth) in my favorite diner with a certain someone, waiting for the best pancakes in town.
And finally, there's the soothing feeling that my body gets as I finish the last dishes in the sink, the water still warm and smooth from the suds. I've always been self-conscious about having soft hands. They conceal the fact that I've actually done "man's" work before, while telling the story of how I've been an inside thinking man all of my life. But right now it doesn't particularly matter. You ever notice how the temperature of your extremities affects your entire body? I guess that's just what I really love. Being warm.