Countdown to this day

Five
Albums I am trying to get through and incise into my head:
Ornette Coleman: This is our Music
New Pornographers: Electric Version
Liz Phair: Whip Smart
Lucinda Williams: Happy Woman Blues
Red Hot Chili Peppers: Stadium Arcadium

Four
Shots of espresso this morning, sipping in bed. With ice, milk, almond syrup. I realize that this cannot continue. Recently I was out of milk at home and so went to the office uncaffeinated. With my boss out and me at the department’s helm and therefore generally frantic, I went to the office pantry and made myself a quart, yes, a quart, of regular coffee. I need an intervention.

Three
New ripening strawberries on the front stoop. I neglected my French fraises des bois to death earlier this spring. I could hear them mewling and whining, begging me to water them, bring them softly from their cold-storage slumber. But I was too preoccupied. And so now I have Swiss alpine strawberries instead, aspiring on my high stoop which I hope is altitudinous enough for them. I will perhaps know by this weekend, when I anticipate my first taste.

Two
At the inner corner of each eye, the beginning of the tender purple marks of sleep deprivation. This has been two months in the making, and I was wondering when it would happen. I have traded eight hours of sleep for five, quite on accident, or at least certainly not on purpose, my brain, my physical being, like a pair of kittens in a sack, rolling, tumbling, playing, sometimes to my delight, sometimes to my irritation, but always too early in the morning.

One
Dead car battery. Again! Which means one parking ticket today. Again! But why have a car in the city? Because this week I took the top down and drove over the Brooklyn Bridge, under its arches, sparkling water, brilliant sun, warm air. Be jealous. Or at least envious. Or ask me for a ride. I can't say no if you ask for one.