Between the grays

I am sleepy, sipping cinnamon tea, and slipping in and out of downy thoughts on this softly lit afternoon. The lamps in my two rooms take a cue from the sun and are subdued and edged in haze. An occasional thistle-y idea burrs itself into a fold in my brain and I stare out the window and work it free. But all you can see when you look at me looking out is a blank stare or the darting of eyes from internal cloud to sea or a vague smile at the memory of the scent of pine needles at Rock Creek or Mexican coffee brewed on a propane stove in the middle of a stormy afternoon.

The bay and sky are the same color. Only a thin strip of land separates them and reminds one of humanity between the shades of gray. A blue and white striped jib flutters before a sailboat and I imagine the passengers standing at the bow blowing with all their might into the canvas, willing wind to get them back to the dock, back home to a cup of steamy hot chocolate and a snickerdoodle beneath a quilt. They are wearing boxy orange life preservers and wondering why people think this sailing thing is fun. Or they are bundled in wool sweaters and watch caps and drinking Flor de Cana rum and laughing at dirty jokes as the main and jib inch them along back to land lives they are happily neglecting for the afternoon.

I think about getting up, I think about the morning spent stuffing straw and rye seed inoculated with Phoenix spores into thick plastic bags and wonder when the Phoenix will rise out of cellulose and starch, I think about when I last knitted a scarf.
Tufts of words and images tumble through fingers and past tea cups.
Slowly my eyes close and all thoughts melt into the reddish black of my eyelids.

It is December and it is cold and it is going to rain tomorrow and that Beach Boys song about dreaming of this place on a winter's day just doesn't apply when you actually live in California.

It is Sunday and it is the perfect day for sky and sea to merge, for cups of tea, for couches and imaginings, for pulling a blanket out of the dryer and wrapping it around your shoulders, for scented candles with goofy names like Sleigh Ride, for long novels you almost forgot you were reading, for popcorn with butter and salt and pepper.
Always for popcorn.

Shnugalicious Sunday, as they say.

And if they don't say, they should start.