The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

thirteen ways of looking at another day

"Invalid Entry" 

Upon waking, the world is mine once more. The walls of my bedroom have never seen tears, nor have they heard the moans and sighs of lovers. The hallway beyond the door has never bore the weight of feet, the staircase at the end of it leads to nothing but possibility. All the worries have been left in the haze of purple sleep, deep in the pillow, somewhere under the covers. Disappointment of what never was has sunk into the grooves of the mattress, along with the saliva of tepid dreaming and the froth of sharp-nailed nightmares. To rise from the mattress is to let spilled blood dry.

A flash of orange on the wall. It is fine and gleaming, and I take it to mean that there is trouble coming. Oh, most would delight in the finger of early morning sun as it curls through the curtains, but I see it as 'sailor's warning', and know that something wicked this way comes. There will be snow. There will be pewter clouds. There will be wet and slick roads and running noses. I know it, even though the sun is burnt on my wall. This could be the day of the big storm.

The roar of a jet in the sky overhead. I know it's an F18. I know my planes thanks to the man in the office down the hall. He lives them, breathes them, probably wishes I had wings. I think about the plane that went down last week, the one which flattened a home and incinerated all the passengers and I rush to see if the sky above is free of impending doom. I hear it, I can't see it, thanks to the clouds which have moved in. Then, suddenly, there it is, twirling and rolling artfully. All the precision one could hope for when stuck on the ground looking up. This could be the day I see a plane crash.

I crack the eggs and watch them slither into the bowl, wondering if the yolks are too yellow, trying to make no association between chick and abortion. If I think about it too much, I will surely wretch. I don't have much left to choose from now that I have forsaken four-legged beasties. I am left with the chickens, and I hope they don't mind. I grab a whisk and begin to whip, obliterating any resemblence to eyes. It froths up quickly, and I add a little milk, a pinch of salt, a teaspoon of dijon mustard, and I pour it into a hot pan. I push the spatula around gently, watching the heat so that it doesn't burn, doesn't dry out. The yellow is no longer hard, but soft. I prefer it this way. This could be the day that I make the perfect scrambled eggs.

A slight ache in my back. It could be my gall bladder, or it could be the result of poor posture, or it could even be the effects of dull thinking. I straighten up with a sigh and hear something crack lightly. It feels wonderful, that crack, though I'm sure it isn't a good thing. Of course, maybe that crack was the realignment of something which has been amiss for some time. Maybe that crack heralded the end of the inconvenience. Perhaps the day has arrived where the pain will have been banished.

Each cat approaches me in the kitchen without so much as the sound of nails on the tiles. They surround me, like savages, looking for meat, lusting for milk. I ignore them, hear their tongues lick their lips and know their eyes are blinking sweetly, but I choose to look the other way. They always want something, it seems. Then, I think about how old they're getting, how many years I've stood in the kitchen with them watching me from behind and I wonder if today will be the day I lose one or all of them.

I check my email. I have grown tired of receiving mail that has nothing to do with me as a person. I am sick of silly forwards, superstitious chain mail and advertisements for products which will never be as good as they profess to be. I come to the main page and see that there are six messages in my inbox. I let myself look at that number for five minutes, wondering if any of those waiting messages is something wonderful. Maybe today is the day I receive a message telling me that I will be published, or that an old friend is missing me, or that I have a secret admirer, or that I have won some large sum of money. I leave it for now. The excitement in anticipation is far better than the reality might be. If I leave it, what I want to know might mysteriously take root.

I drive downtown, over the causeway, past the barracks onto silent morning streets. It is luxurious, this silence, and I am heartened by the silvery cleanliness of an empty city. I park in the first spot I find and walk up the street with a small bounce in my step. There are new stores, I notice, and some of my old favourites are gone, but there are nice clothes on the mannequin in the window. Today, I might buy myself something gorgeous, maybe in a purple, possibly in pink.

Inside the building, there are many wayward types scouring the corkboard with the job listings. My appointment is now, and I sit in a chair observing the others. Some are only half serious, taking advantage of the free access computers to check their email, and others still are dressed up to check the board, but don't actually appear to be reading it. I am slightly unnerved, wondering if I've made a mistake, and then a tall, black-haired woman with black framed glasses comes out and introduces herself, smiling with the kind of genuine warmth one could only wish for in a delicate situation. Today could be the day I learn of real work possibilities.

She likes me, I can tell, and we lose forty minutes to talking about everything but what we're supposed to. We have a lot in common!, she says with a smile. She's a foodie, a wine snob, and I like this about her because it's the only thing which one might say is pretentious in her character. It is possible that this is the day I make a new friend.

You've got a lot going for you, she smiles, and I exhale in relief, especially when she tells me that she has 'connections', that we will definitely find me something which suits me, and I think that maybe today is the day I might find a goal.

She asks me about my passions, and I fess up to liking words. I tell her I know that there's no money in loving ideas and art, and she says that I'd be surprised, that she'll tuck my loves into my file and will remember me if chance comes along. I smile hopefully, but tell myself not to get too excited. Today could be the day I spit on optimism.

I come home feeling happier than when I left it, which is unusual. I am aware that I have successfully taken steps to remove myself from my rut. I did not cry, did not faint, and did not worry. I wonder if maybe today is the day I start to move forward instead of back. Have I unlocked a door? Opened a window? Am I riding high on possibility or am I actually making progress? Could I have awakened to day which is the first day of the rest of my life?

After learning a few new things in a classroom full of grey-haired, exasperated, tongue-clicking computer novices, I trudge home through the falling snow (I knew that today would be a day for snow), and I walk up my driveway, climb the steps to my front door and I see my love tying up his boots through the window next to the door. He is readying to pick up our child from school, and he smiles when he sees me looking. I enter, and he stands, his chest at the same level as my eyes, and I push my head to it, listening for the heart I've come to call my own. Today could be the day for perfect kisses, for hot rushes in warm places, for lingering, pregnant looks, and for the kind of certainty I've been craving.

The day is not yet over. Anything could happen.