Semi-Dreaming of Snow

I could hear him moving around in the kitchen, in the edges of my sleep. I was semi-dreaming. Half-awake, half-buried in sleep. I pulled the blanket up a little to cover a gap on my shoulder, guarding against the cooler air in the room. Not cold, of course, because this is Texas and this is May. But cooler than the warm coziness under the blanket.

I remembered days like this, years ago, when he would be awake so early, making coffee and reading in the semi-dark. I remembered those days when he’d lean over the bed and kiss me goodbye before wrapping the scarf around and around and around his neck against the frigid temperatures for his walk to work. But mostly I remembered those mornings when I could hear him, in the kitchen, making coffee, with mumbles of radio weaving in and out of his moving sounds. Remembering when the mumbles would stop and he would climb back in bed, careful not to let too much cold air under the blankets, and settle back next to me, whispering, “Snow day.”

The Flowered Wallpaper

When we first moved in to this house, the walls were mostly whitish, with a brownish-taupe in the hall, and dark green in the hall bathroom. Wallpaper occupied the borders of two rooms and all of the “Master” bathroom. That “Master” paper had large purple and green flowers (irises?) on a beige field. In this house, the Sonars occupy the “Master” bedroom. Their sleeping, their things, their bathroom are all contained in that space.

When we first moved in to this house, we were flush with the freedom and excitement of being able to do as we pleased with the walls. So naturally we wanted to paint them orange and yellow. Especially in the Sonar room. That wallpaper had to come down. We would not be trapped behind those pale stripes or smothered by the perfume of those flowers. 

Don’t believe what they tell you on decorating shows about how easy it is to remove wallpaper. That’s a lie. Removing wallpaper sucks. The only joy in the wallpaper removal came when we discovered that there was no wallpaper behind the giant vanity mirror. We wrote on the wall behind the mirror, “HI” in large, textured loops. Go look. It’s still there behind the glass.

The walls under the wallpaper were the bare paper of sheetrock, with a few scraping gouges and peeling dents from taking down the paper. I shuddered at the echoing, cold, dry, smoothness of that wall. Walls should not be so cold. Walls should not be so smooth. The paper should not feel so dry.

Texture would have to go up before we could citrify the walls. The texture on those walls doesn’t match the rest of the room because we are amateur mud workers. With the orange and yellow paint, the texture is the last thing most people notice. But I am comforted by the texture, the knife-applied strokes that bend sound and wrap the room in cozy imperfection.

Update on Thursday, September 29, 2011 at 1:17PM by Eglentyne

Two minutes after I hit ‘post’ I found a picture of the wallpaper. No, not irises, and much less purple than I remembered. Anyone know the flower? 

Two mini-Sonars and the pre-citrus flowery wallpaper, c2005

Sleep.2

I am in bed reading a book. After I left the bed and sleep so reluctantly this morning, I am now equally reluctant to get here and give in to sleeping. Just one more page. Partner breathes slowly next to me, his body warm and familiar against mine. I try not to flop around too much so I don’t wake him, but I have to shift the book from time to time so my hand doesn’t fall asleep. I like to read in bed, because it’s quiet. But also because in bed, I can hold the book close enough to my face that I don’t need to wear my glasses.

My granddad used to tell me that reading without my glasses for a few minutes every day would make my eyes stronger. I think about this every time I put down my glasses and pick up a book. I don’t know whether granddad’s advice was reasonable, but it’s a caring little bit of him that is always with me. 

I know, as I turn the page that I should be sleeping. Just one more chapter. Section. Page. I know that it will feel good to turn out the light and squeeze myself closer to Partner. I know that the warm blankets will feel good on my cool arms, but I savor this silent aloneness for a few more minutes. This quiet buffer between the business of my day and the oblivion of sleep. 

Sleep.1

I am asleep in my bed. I am sleeping well. I am warm and cozy. Ok, I’m not really asleep. An hour ago, Partner’s alarm went off, and he got out of bed. He went off to do whatever he does when everyone is asleep. Grind coffee beans in the laundry room so he doesn’t wake anyone. And listen to NPR in his bathrobe. I’ve often thought of joining him during this early morning quiet time, just to sneak extra minutes for us. But I don’t because I don’t think I’m much of a morning person. The real problem is that I can’t give up this. This delicious warm drowsy darkness where I’m asleep enough to be oblivious but juuuuuust awake enough to appreciate it. 

When Partner’s alarm went off, I scooched over to his spot to better reach the clock and then drifted back into the semi-oblivion. When my alarm went off five minutes ago, I hit the snooze and sprawled out flat on my back to wait out my five minutes. I am still more asleep than awake, though I can hear Partner finishing his morning shave in the bathroom. I am dimly aware when he gets into the shower moments later. 

When my alarm goes off a second time, I hit the snooze again within the first two wonks. That’s what the alarm sounds like: wonk wonk wonk. I don’t immediately move though, and the thought of turning off the alarm clock and going back to sleep always crosses my mind. The next thought is always a mashed up brain-image of all my responsibilities, pummeling my consciousness like a prickly cold snowball. So I get up, turn on the light, wondering why I do this every morning when the bed and sleep are so perfectly enticing, so druggingly cocooning, wondering how anyone else manages to get up when the alternative is snuggly bliss. Wondering just how many people choose the bed instead. 

Maybe I need elbow grease?

I have spent the past few weeks in an epic toss and declutter mission throughout our house. We have trashed and donated a huge amount of stuff. Though I’m normally a (compulsively) list-oriented person, this (spring) summer cleaning has unfolded organically. I’ve moved from drawer to shelf to closet as function struck me. 

Big jobs and small. Electronic and physical. Organizational and emotional. I have tackled it. I washed curtains! We even helped Sonar X11 face his burgeoning micro-hoarding tendencies. There is more, of course. In a functioning household, there is always something else that can be tidied up or sorted out.

In the middle of this cleaning frenzy, I also sewed, and baked, and knit, and planned for the upcoming school year. The house feels good.

There’s one problem.

This domestic sifting and discarding elbowed out other things. Like the writing. I know the Order will be pleasant when the writing recommences. I appreciate that.

But dude. The writing needs to start elbowing back.