Congratulations everyone! We made it to another Friday! I’m planning out my weekend, even as I stare at the hours of work still on my desk yet to finish before I call it official. I’ll be able to knock off an hour or so earlier than usual thanks to having been woken up before the sun by a dozen athletic young men in running gear hammering on my door. -grin- And people wonder where I get my ideas.
Seriously, there is something kind of idea-generating about seeing young men clustered in the shadow light in the dead of the morning when all is quiet, gathering up the last of the group so they can run off and create mayhem. Okay, in this case, they were simply going to run, but what if they were going to break into the big-bad-ugly’s fortress and destroy the dam so that the town’s crops wouldn’t die from lack of water? Huh? What if they had to get across the tundra before the sun melted the glacier? What if the vampire had gotten back to his lair, and this was the only time they could try to kill him?
Okay, maybe not those ideas, but what I took away from my pre-sun extravaganza was the utter quiet of the morning with its breathless feel of waiting. The sight of athletic silhouettes shifting in the chill shadow, impatient to be away. The curious sensation of cold, sunless air hitting my bed-warm skin. (It feels different. It really does.) The feeling of urgency and question that pulled me from my bed. The doubt in me when I found out my husband hadn’t locked himself out but that there was a strange man on my porch, beating on my door. — All that I take with me, squirreling it away until needed, be it two hours, or two years from now. Though it may sound stupid, I know what unwritten story, what unrealized scene those sensations will fit into already. (Grace, I will return to you someday.)
I spent the next half hour stumbling about in search of tea, glad I wasn’t the one that went from rem cycles to pounding the pavement in two minutes flat. Dude, that is something I don’t particularly want to experience firsthand, even if the sensations would be worth gold. I’ll fake those, thank you.
But the sun just came up red, so it’s time to get to work. Looks like I won’t be in the garden this weekend. Red sun in morning, sailor take warning . . . which means there should be rain by the end of the day. I’ll probably bake instead. Mmmm, I might make pop-tarts . . . Which are 100 times better than the store-bought ones, but take six hours to make with all the chillin’.