The first mistake is to make up one’s mind too soon about what kind of day you’re having. Especially if you know you run to morbidity. Then trying to decide it’s a good day seems forced, and everything the whole day long will be duly difficult. Try wandering up and down the house or apartment instead, not knowing how you’re feeling, for a good while. Don’t choose a mood. Don’t commit to it. Stay in the fluid, and the course will appear.
Dreams are an indication, though. I try not to have a morning drastically different than my dreams. The contrast is too jarring. Whether the weater at daybreak determinees my unconscious mood in the dreams or the other way around(!), I feel the grayness of the sky after melancholy dreams helps me transition smoothly into waking. A bright, sunny morning encourages happy moods, tempts one to try and be thusly happy.
But the worst is a melancholy dream and a bright, cheerful morning sun. Too forced, too much a reminder that you are the only thing in the room not lit. This condition marks depression with a thousand watt marquee, like nothing else, which is what los angeles is–a gigantic, glowing reminder of how seedy your mood really is. The filth is in full technicolor. There is no escaping the heat of scrutiny. Just ask the stars!
Back east, you had rain, you had clouds, you had dreary days in which everyone could drown their struggles in collective black puddles of slush. We were all in it together. But L.A.–“Hey, man, what’s wrong with you and your pathos? There’s nothing to be upset aobut. Dreams of dark woods and murky shipwrecks hold no truck with the light of day in L.A. Chill out, man!”
So I’m glad it’s overcast today, even though my throat is telling me it’s chem-trails-induced cloudcover (seedy, indeed). At least I can transition into this day without the shock of the sun beating in like a too-chipper Auntie, stripping the bedclothes back while I’m still in it! I can wander the apartment and take a cup of espresso in my dimly lit corner chair, write a few pages.
My boyfriend is still in that bed. It is darkly draped with covers, blue and purple comforter. His back is probably up, face turned and breathing fuzzily from partially under the pillow. I am always slightly torn to leave him. Because if I can rouse him we can have delicious morning sex and he’s gentle and powerful. Less aggressive, but just as strong. And shortly after, he pops up, awake! Ready for an audition, or a marathon of computer promotions, or whatever he does on that thing. My morning then becomes à deux and I miss the dim corner chair time, because half my brain is recording his movemenets and registering the electro-digital signal from his mac. I like morning unplugged. I like to register where I am, first.
Then introduce food and coffee. Then write and play with colors. Maybe clean up last night’s clutter (balled up socks, empty glasses of former Bushmills). This morning I arranged yesterday’s magazine clippings on a mirrored table by the front window, like a collage. I did good clipping yesterday from the REAL SIMPLE magazine, and ‘O’. One of the gems shows a black/white photo of a one-woman band, and the words ‘Conciously Incompetent’. I think it was the title of an article about learning to play the banjo.
Next to that, a bunch of cranberries, white background, bright light. I love cranberries. I think they may be consciously incompetent. They know full well they are too bitter to be eaten off the stems. Cranberries don’t need your good opinion of them, thank you very much. By being just a bit sour, they avoid the fate of, say, poor raspberries, for which folk can’t help ravish the bushes in the late summer. This wreaks havoc! Cranberries float on cold marsh waters; you have to go out of your way to retrieve them. Your affection for them can’t be fickle. Just like a true Northeasterner, cranberries don’t put up with a lot of nonsense.
And yes, now the sun is out. The dreams are fading fast. My hunger is prying my stomach open and I’m going to heed it.