Yoga mat

I want things to come to me right now, but the things I want don't work that way.

I don't have many dreams anymore. If I do, they're not dreams because I don't remember them. As far as I'm concerned a dream is nothing more or less than the creak of the wooden stairs when I'm walking down them at 3 a.m. for a glass of water and a tangerine.

I think I should say something about the recent election, but I can't think of anything that hasn't already been said. Whatever the case, whatever my happiness is now with the situation is sure to turn to disappointment in a few days when things get back to normal.

Looking at the extraordinary map of the USA as published in The New York Times yesterday of the voting patterns of the nation, I see how close we were to having an outcome I wouldn't have wished on anyone. But when I close my eyes and breathe deeply, all I see are blue states.

Laying on my back on the yoga mat, I'm almost able to stretch into the magical realm of a man like Luis Cernuda. I read his book of prose poems, Written in Water, like I'm on my back looking up at the stars.