Sunday Morning Coming Down
I'm sitting in bed drinking beer and listening to Johnny Cash sing "Sunday Morning Coming Down" on repeat. The image is probably somewhat spoiled by the fact that the beer is Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale. I doubt that was the kind Johnny had for breakfast.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down"
Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.
Then I headed down the street
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
One of my favorite songs of melancholy and, let's be honest, self-pity. I'm having mood swings again. One day I haz a happy, the next day I haz a sad. I don't really want to tell y'all about the sads because you have all been so happy for me being happy, but it's unrealistic that I will be happy one hundred percent of the time, forever, just because I'm on testosterone. There are reasons for these mood swings, though; they don't feel particularly chemical. Lots of things are changing in my life. Few things feel stable. I miss Grey terribly and don't know when he will be back -- just another week or so, but it's hard not having an exact day to look forward to. Things are weird with Chris; I'm not sure how well the poly thing is working for him. He's lying to me, definitely by omission, possibly in other ways, and it seems to me that polyamory is unlikely to work without total honesty. I don't necessarily mean sharing details -- no one should feel compelled to share the details of their encounters unless it's a turn-on for all parties -- but hiding things can't be good. Especially when we have mutual friends who mention things to me assuming I already know about them, but I don't know, and I feel humiliated and left out of the loop. So I feel as if the people who love me most are far away, either literally or figuratively beyond my reach.
But I saw my first Saints win in the Dome today, and I went through the male security pat-down line without getting a second glance -- a guy even said "Excuse me, buddy" as he brushed past me. And I bought a nifty leather cuff on eBay for just $3.89. And I've got my copy of The Stand that Del and Sue Howison of Dark Delicacies so kindly sent me in September 2005, when I badly needed it, and I'm browsing through it and comforting myself with old friends and vivid descriptions of people strangling on their own snot. Hey, I take my comfort where I can get it.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down"
Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.
Then I headed down the street
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
One of my favorite songs of melancholy and, let's be honest, self-pity. I'm having mood swings again. One day I haz a happy, the next day I haz a sad. I don't really want to tell y'all about the sads because you have all been so happy for me being happy, but it's unrealistic that I will be happy one hundred percent of the time, forever, just because I'm on testosterone. There are reasons for these mood swings, though; they don't feel particularly chemical. Lots of things are changing in my life. Few things feel stable. I miss Grey terribly and don't know when he will be back -- just another week or so, but it's hard not having an exact day to look forward to. Things are weird with Chris; I'm not sure how well the poly thing is working for him. He's lying to me, definitely by omission, possibly in other ways, and it seems to me that polyamory is unlikely to work without total honesty. I don't necessarily mean sharing details -- no one should feel compelled to share the details of their encounters unless it's a turn-on for all parties -- but hiding things can't be good. Especially when we have mutual friends who mention things to me assuming I already know about them, but I don't know, and I feel humiliated and left out of the loop. So I feel as if the people who love me most are far away, either literally or figuratively beyond my reach.
But I saw my first Saints win in the Dome today, and I went through the male security pat-down line without getting a second glance -- a guy even said "Excuse me, buddy" as he brushed past me. And I bought a nifty leather cuff on eBay for just $3.89. And I've got my copy of The Stand that Del and Sue Howison of Dark Delicacies so kindly sent me in September 2005, when I badly needed it, and I'm browsing through it and comforting myself with old friends and vivid descriptions of people strangling on their own snot. Hey, I take my comfort where I can get it.