my day

I set up house at the coffee shop, preparing my day of study, after spending the morning in quiet communion in a circle, then cleaning the dust bunnies of clutter that collected in my home. I pop in a new CD – Chris Bathgate, Silence is for Suckers – as I sit in silence with this self. I begin to type an entry, wondering what I want to say, but my head feels constipated with used up thoughts. I struggle to put any words to the page. I go outside to get a sense of something outside. Watching this gyrl in the distance playing with her red umbrella in carousel twirls, up and down, over and around and around and around. Her goulashes spin, a wobbly rotation between her and the unsteady ground. Caught with her red umbrella between the rains today, she becomes a dancer in the chilled wind, content and impish in her childhood.

I am distracted by my favorite entrepreneur who has gone door to door trying to find a space for the bongo people, who want to play but have no home today. Her smile always catches between my chest and lungs; I want to strive to live life with as much bubble and joy that erupts from her. She tells me about the cracked glass and tile dreams she has for this coffee shop as inserts of insight unfold about the bongo people that has sent her out in this day. I smile in myself while muttering the words bongo people, bongo people, bongo people in my head. I want to keep saying it over and over again, my own carousel of spinning happiness.

I come inside and start again to prepare for my day. Studying the top of the list, writing the primer for the studiousness, I am not ready to put my nose in the book or the book up to my nose. I murmur bongo people, letting it bong from my lips. My neighbor smiles and I smile back. I’ve learn not to explain me. It’s just best to let it be.

Typing my page, I realize, though I haven’t moved any of my clogged-up thoughts, I have eased them with the color in a day, this day,
my day.