Trying to start the day with a trick, a good thought, a cartwheel, something that is generous, the tendrils of a dream. Trying to coast on the curl of the duvet, trying to keep warm at the desk. Trying to slough the limescale carbuncled on my brain with coffee, coffee, coffee. His inhale, his exhale, no toast left, just butter; it’s no good for spreading. I’m still sleepy. The morning is a fat Hawaiian voodoo god clutching his belly and chortling at our feeble attempts at day, and I’m still sleepy.
You told me last night that when we woke there would be trout leaping up the rainbows that makeshift as curtains; you told me the butlers would bring us silver mosques tiled with pancakes, maple, mozzarella. There is not. My skin is a tulip bulb, hollow and shrouded in a springtime the room has forgotten. My mouth is sour. I whisper scarleteen words to my tongue to salvage the day. I learn that “taghairm” is a form of Scottish divination—inspiration sought by lying in a bullock’s hide behind a waterfall—and the specificity gives me shivers.
Here is Richard Brautigan: “It’s a high building in Singapore that holds the only beauty for this San Francisco day where I am walking down the street, feeling terrible and watching my mind function with the efficiency of a liquid pencil.”
Liquid pencils. My brain. His inhale, his exhale. No more coffee in the kitchen. A peculiar start to the day. Never mind. Good, round things are about to pummel through the earth. Shiny pennies.