With a Headful of Mush

Dearest Rachel –

There’s an interesting effect in my trying to write you first thing in the morning, starting with the first hour or two after rolling out of bed. Some mornings, of course, I’m literally waking up with something to tell you about, even if it’s weird or surreal – because you used to tell me about some of your stranger dreams, and you would have wanted to hear about it if I started having any, now that I’m no longer subject to having them punctured by the screech of an alarm clock.

Other days, it’s a matter of my impending real life that I have to tell you about; plans for the day, most of the time, but occasionally going further into the future. These are the stories for which my customary sign-off truly means something, as I’m embarking on something I haven’t done before (because otherwise, why would I tell you about it? My ordinary routine isn’t all that interesting – although in that case, it might just be that it’s all that I have to talk about that day), and I could truly use your watchful eye and a wish that things go well.

But then there are days when I wake up more out of habit (and slight discomfort, because age; there’s a point where one gets stiff and sore the longer one stays in bed, believe it or not) rather than actual wakefulness. I’d rather still be asleep; my mind still hasn’t quite cleared the cobwebs from its neurons (and in fairness, it’s hard to tell the difference, as the dendrites connecting them rather look like webbing) and I’m not thinking particularly clearly. I don’t have that much to say to you in that moment, but at the same time, I’m aware that I ought to get in touch with you soon, because once the day starts, I may run short on time to tell you about things thereafter.

Such are things as they stand today. I know I won’t have time to write you from the ‘office,’ as I’ll only be there for an hour or so before heading off to meet with Lars for our weekly walk. At the same time, my mind’s just foggy, with little to relate to you. There are preparations to be made for the day – and for the coming week or so, as I need to get ready for my trip to Honduras – but they’ve been set aside, in a manner you would be able to relate to, procrastinator that you were.

Then again, you wouldn’t be of any mind yourself to listen to me at the hour that I’m typing this right now (at about six-thirty; yes, that’s how early I find myself waking up organically these days. Then again, it is summer, and the sun’s been up and out for at least an hour, so it might be understandable). As I recall, you’d sleep in of a summer’s day until eight or nine, like Elsie Marley – a name from a nursery rhyme that you would drop from time to time – especially given that you had no responsibilities to deal with like hers, unless you count Chompers. So you’d be in no mood to hear from me at this hour, anyway.

Which is fine; we would usually talk when I got back from the office – or even before then, since I would make a point of calling you when I was on my way home, and we would discuss our plans for the evening, especially if you needed me to stop for something on the way. But those we the sort of conversations that were in the moment, and weren’t conducive to being written down; one ‘speaks’ differently on paper than in an actual conversation, as a general rule. Moreover, if each of these letters was that similar from day to day, would you (or anyone else reading over your shoulder) even bother with these? There’s a reason our actual conversations are ephemeral, I suppose, even though, now that I can’t have them anymore, I wish they could return.

Here, when I’m putting words on paper – or rather, in pixels – for you to be able to see at any given time in the future, I feel the need to say something different to you every day. Which is hard to do with a headful of mush in the morning, but that’s how some mornings are. Then again, I’ve gotten this far; it’s surprising how much nothing I can tell you about, once I get started.

Maybe I’ll have more to tell you about in time; most likely, though, that won’t happen until tomorrow morning. And it’s possible I won’t really have that much more to say to you then, either. It’s not as if something interesting happens every day – or, on the days when it does, whether I’d recognize it, necessarily. I’m sure I do a lot of things that you wouldn’t recognize as characteristic of me from when we were together, but which I’ve come to accept as just part of my routine these days.

I do hope that the fog lifts from my mind soon, though, as there’s still a lot of day to make my way through, regardless of whether I get to tell you about it or not. To that end, honey, wish me well; I’m going to need it.