Let the Rhythm of the Snoring Carry You Away

---------

There are surprising positive consequences inherent in being the eldest sister.

For example, I always get the place I want to sleep in the hotel room. Not counting the master bed if the parental units are present, of course. But a pull out trundle? Right side, two pillows. Only a couch? I'll take that. In a family of three sisters one girl is always ousted to the floor, and it is my job to make sure that she is never me. Call me cruel, but I don't need no treaty of Westphalia to practice sovereignty, yo.

Actually don't call me cruel. I've had rough day - insults are not desired here. Another philosophy in how to obtain the best sleeping arrangements is to have a reputation for being the "best sleeper." In other words, I do not kick, bite, steal covers, and/or snore.* Bailey, on the other hand, is violent. If she ever wants to be a pacifist, she will first have to confront her sleep-self. Don't be fooled by the cute button nose - underneath the facade is a dreaming round-house kick to your sleeping face. Coincidentally, she is sleeping next to me right now. Tonight does not promise to be too crazy, but do pray for me. Never let your guard down. Let the rhythm of her snores serve as your reminder. I think I will build a pillow wall for safety.

Maddie, luckily, is not a threat tonight. She was bumped to the couch. At this point a collective sigh of relief is released everywhere. You see, Maddie is a sort of "viscous koala sleeper." It's a real thing. First she takes your covers. Than she wraps her arms and legs around you. Then she sleep talks in your face the rest of the night. This may sound cute to you, but rest assured that I know better. A Posteriori.

Thus, maybe out of pity they allow me to sleep where I want. They are self-aware. They know their powers. Oh the collective force of sisterhood.

---------

In other news, my day has not been rough. That was simply rhetoric I used earlier to illicit pity from my readership. Forgive me for showing you the man behind the curtain, but I wanted to enlighten you a little on my weekend.

I'll make it short and sweet:

Beach.
Sun.
Oregon.
Family.
Coffee.

Notice that essay-composing is not among the list of features present during the weekend. Um. I'll fix that, I promise.

Good thing blog posts like this exist in 198 miles, or people might start to suspect that I have literary intentions.
... But you and I know better.

---------

* comparative to others in my life; They kick, bite, steal covers, and/or snore worse than I do.

Like a Landslide

How do we learn to recognize?

My eyes work over the lines of your face and I immediately know I've seen the grooves of it before. Memory must live in the grooves of life.

Grooves of all sorts; ditches and dimples, cracks and corrugations. 

This weekend I drove over the pass of I-90 into eastern Washington. To a little town of Quincy, if you are familiar with the area. There is a canyon filled with the Columbia river winding its way past the town. It was good to behold so much space in a single landscape. I'm always too tucked away into my corner of Seattle. 

In a poem written from the point of view of a mirror, the great and terribly parlous poet Sylvia writes; 

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

I find that many people are mirrors. And many people are continually frustrated by opposing forces in their attempts to reach out and touch something. In that frustrated distance, however, exists a reflection. Pitching itself and folding in, our parts reflect a landscape. Always. 

As a teenager I would drive a specific route to high school every morning. Many early mornings would see me putting a fleetwood mac tape into my cassette deck and rolling over the Mollala River bridge to Canby High. Every clear morning would reveal Mt. Hood - a white peak set against the rose-tinted clouds of 7 am. 

It was a sort of liturgy for me. I would clear the little hill and immediately the visage of the mountain would be beside me. And in my head, I would repeat; "I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. I have looked at it

so long

I think it is a part of my heart."

Until it was. It is. 

Whose visage are you seeking, my friend?

Of whom is the reflection in your heart?