Some mornings I can hear the gunshots from the police firing range near my neighborhood. snap snap snap. A friend of mine used to live near the zoo when he was alive; he could hear the howler monkeys on foggy mornings. I remember the sound of howler monkeys from the jungles of Chiapas. Howl is a less appropriate description than roar. Waking up in my tiny hotel room with the corrugated metal roof to the sound of a howler monkey marking his territory, I thought a jaguar was on the loose and hungry for a banana-fed girl like me. Not the case. In Chiapas moths click at each other. Much nicer sounds in the morning than the harsh sound of bullet leaving barrel.
I slept with my windows open and this morning my apartment is filled with a sour, foul smell emanating from the neighbor's garbage in the alley. Something sweet rotted so it has fermented into a yeasty, pungent funk that made me bring my coffee into the office. We modern-ish humans living away from our waste and scrubbed raw are lucky, hypersensitive folk.
I woke up diagonal this morning. Stretched corner to corner, my hair draped over the side of the bed as if I were placed that way by a stylist; sheet wrapped around my body. The only witness to my slumber postures my books and the old Gods on my dresser.
The audiobook I'm currently listening to is Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. I've read it before but this audiobook is narrated by Goldberg herself and her voice is comforting to me. I bet she has great, strong framed glasses and would be someone I could wax poetic with, drawling over philosophy, ghosts, what makes us do what we do and don't. She has added an commentary track to her book, notes on what she previously wrote and how she looks back on it. Very original.
snap. snap. snap.
I Want to Love You in My Room