December 21, 2008

6:31 a.m.

Sowing

As in all fertile periods, I have been awaking in the small hours, unable to get back to sleep. There is so much to create, and so many ways to do it. If I lie quietly and think about every step, I might find a better way.

The vaporizer is long overdue for cleaning. It now makes a constant gurgling noise that helps keep me awake. I have never found a vaporizer yet whose heating element is easy to clean. This one is hard to even get to, and to my knowledge, no amount of soaking in vinegar and scraping has ever removed any scale from it. I don't know why manufacturers don't improve upon this. It's the reason I put off cleaning it, and why it's gurgling more. I'm thinking I may have to get a different one soon. I lie awake and think about vaporizer heating elements and better ways to clean them.

I lie awake and wonder if I should have my Fiskars scissors sharpened. I have never had scissors sharpened before, but the fabric store will do it. They're not as sharp as they should be. I look at them in the dim light and realize they aren't Fiskars after all. Perhaps they're cheap scissors and I should just get a better pair. I could get small lace at the same time for the dolls. But maybe not today; JoAnn's is 45 minutes away and it's supposed to snow again, another 4-6". I think instead about how to improve the body pattern, the way the dress is put together, the gathering of the waist. I think about the merits of crochet vs. knit.

I think about the little patch of eczema that appeared on my left hand yesterday morning. It's the first time it's migrated from the two fingers on the right hand. Not happy news. I woke in the dark with it itching fiercely, nothing visible on the skin. Later in daylight I saw the slight rough redness. I try not to project. I keep suppressing it with the cream right now because I don't want to feel it any more this month. I want to feel other things.

I think of how Carol said her mother has the shakes now. I visited my mom in Georgia a few years before she passed, and noted the coffee cup shivering against the saucer. I think how everything gets soft and approximate. Put that nearly there; that's good enough. How I love to be so precise but have been trying to let it go, like with handwriting. Sometimes I don't go back and close the tops of the a's and the o's; just let them be the way I wrote them. Trying to be more honest with myself. One day on a plane I did a crossword puzzle, trying to imitate mom's capital E's. Her cursive writing became so wide as she got older. I'd watch her endorse a check, the pen's rhythm slow and predictable, the name spreading out perfectly the same every time. Then placing the coffee cup down in that approximate, shaking way.

Better at some things, softer at others.

There is a pale light now. The screens are opaqued with thin ice, the upper windows dotted with melted moisture. The world outside is hidden, approximate. The vaporizer is unplugged. The refrigerator has even cycled off. There is only the sound of the soft kitchen clock keeping its precise time. A truck far away. The ethereal whisper of the computer. I may have to take a nap later, but for now I'll work on this pattern.