Monk

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Three hours of sleep is inhuman! Monk wakes up a little after six-thirty to take Bo outside, but afterward he dives back under the blanket. An hour later, he is conscious again, and as much as he would love yet another hour, he knows that pretty sleep will not fall on him. He gets up and fires up the skillet for a couple of sausages, which he will be having with his cereal today in an usual break with routine, but not having any apples makes the improvisation easy - and satisfying.

In another unusual move, he does not fire up the computer. After denying his overworked computer its nocturnal rest, Monk lets it sleep in until after the morning reading, when Pop has left to get the groceries, and Monk even gives the monitor and tower vents a wipe-down with a damp cloth, which was well needed with the months of dust blanketing the works.

The news will not be harvested early this morning, but whatever really changes in the world anyway, except that we get older. After this entry and a quick look at the Friends Page, Monk is going to have to get to that aged toilet and try to make his bathroom look less slummy.

It rained again last night rather moderately. The wet, cool, overcast day fits well today - relaxed and alive.

xXx

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Well, at least Bob Herbert is writing this week. That's fifty dollars well spent! Dowd and the gang have apparently taken a Christmas break, which helps to make things feel a little more like death around here. The ChessMaster 9000 may have saved us the spoilage of a razor blade and a very messy bath tub.

xXx

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The sun is coming out early, and it has been shining freely since Christmas afternoon, which is kinda nice if the whole white Christmas ideal is out of the question anyway. Still, Monk does not have any loose bread for the duckies, and he is going to skip the walk and just settle for a full-scrub shower and a shave later on.

Then he went to the kitchen with his plastic little blue bowl in hand, but he does not feel like another soggy, drab breakfast of cereal. His stomach is not feeling the least sensitive, and he goes for the Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts and a coke, "Diabetes and Death, where is thy sting!"

xXx

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Monk is now given to that heavy sort of yawning that sounds like the howl of a wounded bear.

xXx

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One of the special things that the "Story of O" gives the faithful reader (as opposed to the reader who is only racing through for the hottest parts), is that the narrative sometimes goes deeper than the sensational sex, touching upon the more intimate aspects of interpersonal relations, as in the scene when Jacqueline has moved in with O and joins her in bed:

O drew the covers over her and turned out the light. Two hours later, when she took Jacqueline again, in the darkness, Jacqueline acquiesced, but murmured: “Don't tire me out too much, I have to get up early tomorrow.”

Coming across a passage like that is one of the great treats of this reading life, and it brings a tender smile to Monk's ravaged face, but it is a smile weighed down by the poignantly bittersweet regret that this should be experienced between the pages rather than between the sheets.

xXx

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“You're quite prolific with your entries these days, Monk.”

-- theministerscat

It is a vain cry for help. Or for panties. :p

xXx

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Pop sits alone in the theater/TV-room, shouting his Cowboys on, in what looks like a losing effort against the New Orleans Saints.

Monk was a little tempted to tune in, too. Both of these teams go back to Monk's childhood and teenage years, when he loved following the football games and the Cowboys. But much of the league ceased to be comprehensible to him long ago, with Panthers, Elks, or whatever joining the rosters, and it no longer felt real to him. Funny, that's kinda what happened to life, in general.

xXx

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These quiet, strangled cums all alone in the morning, while Pop sleeps across the hall, feel a lot more like little deaths.

xXx

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When I am writing, I sometimes wish that I kept my smoking habit. I imagine it might help with the affectation to maintain the hard-boiled voice of my noir protagonists. Like living that stereotype a little more closely might help. Something about drawing that sweetly foul taste in my mouth and expelling the grey clouds of smoke around me. Exercising that fatal habit would bring out the droll callousness.

But it does foul up the teeth and tastebuds. And stinks up the place. There is also no smoking in the house anymore. Even mother would complain about having to go outside in the cold to get her nic fix. No smoking. It's a good policy. Even if it's not very hard-boiled and dangerous.

I will just have to rely on the influence of my noir reading to put me in the mood.

xXx

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I so love this 'first thing in the morning' routine of firing up the computer for the blogging and news rounds. And it remains true when Monk is not getting any messages. It is all about the journaling. It is a luxury that would be sorely missed.

I think the twittering thing helps a lot, allowing the most mundane to seem a little marvelous.

xXx