Floating into the morning..

Taking a cue from am unnamed personage that has stirred an alarming fondness in me I have decided to start rising very, very early. I remember Anne Rice's Louis taking particular note of the last sunrise he ever saw...he watched it as though it was his first. I have always been fond of watching the opening and closing of the day...
Sunrise was likened to coming closer and closer to God's kingdom in my mind as a youth. I thought I could see God's promise of eternal life in a paradise illustrated by the gilded purple clouds. There was always something magical about 5am.

After watching black and white television for hours in the middle of the night when I was 7 years old I noticed the blackness fade to a blanched blue through the window. I clutched my cat and felt a deep sense of relief. At last it was light out. At last fears disappeared. But as I grew a couple years older and the insomnia remained I grew to love the blackness. I could draw, write poems, being enthralled by the petticoats and bouffants of the 1950s television shows that ran all night. Something about black and white television always made me feel so safe...

The tea that was supposed to enable a peaceful repose only worked for a few hours. The next thing I knew it would be 1 in the morning and I was wide awake, eager to turn on the lights in the family room, let my cat sit on my lap and obsess over the world of black and white...the soft tones of endless shades of grey. Pencils skirts and petticoats, Dobie Gillis and Donna Reed... I would drift in and out a little bit through the night, sponge rollers in my hair to try and imitate Tuesday Weld at school the next day... and I would sleep a little bit...

And in my dreams I was in a poodle skirt sipping a malt with my steady...someone faceless held my hand as the saxophone played on the jukebox... and in my dreams I was black and white... and endless shades of grey...

The night-tide glow of electronics still fascinates me.. but now it is a computer screen or an ipod... It isn't a world of malt shops, do-wop, hand in hand going steady forever...on TV

older years enticed me with a couple centuries prior... organs filled my mind, masks in the catacombs and a voice that could never be forgotten. The Angel of Music coaxed me out of bed. I embraced the feeling of a ghost leading me down the gloomy hallway as the hem of my nightgown slid along the carpet underfoot... I'd stare at the moon and see an angel's face singing a melancholy song. I was enamored of the shadows. I was in love with the sound of the train running through town at 4 am...

There was a tear in the sleeve of my blue night  gown with the peach ribbons...it was never repaired...

I am going to get up early from now on...