Rambling at Five O'Clock on a Sunday Morning

On the seventh day God took a well-deserved nap, but I'm just waking up.  This rousing is nothing more than an accident, but surely I'm not the only one, after all it is time to get up.  Five o'clock is clearly morning, except outside in the dark where it's clearly nighttime.  Soon it will be that time where language gets funny because definitions begin to change.  That darkness will become a little less black and then it will become a little bit blue before becoming a weird something else and then suddenly it will become light.  It will become light and thus will be the true birth of this day.  With a scream of warmth, the placenta of night will fall into the ocean and send ripples crashing on every shore and the birds will begin to chirp and the reptiles will crawl onto rocks and I will be a few hours closer to expiration.

Expiration (n): 1) that point when language gets funny because the way you are defined begins to change, 2) when the life within gets lumpy and unusable, 3) death.

I'm eating an expired pig sandwich, though the ham is still good, and it's blackness is a sunrise inside me, changing from dark to something else to the light that is my life.  Oh, and I'm coughing.
My flu shot, designed to give me life by injecting me with death, has gotten me sick again this year.  So my nose leaks like a wound and coughs rack my mushy frame as my anti-bodies (who are on my side, despite the name) defend my life against influenzaic death.  Sometimes I think about those anti-bodies giving up and me dying.
On the seventh day God rested and called it holy.  The seventh day is when He stopped creating and soon after that, we must imagine, things started to die.  Killers gotta kill.  Sundays, then, are the time in between life and death.  They are the between-darkness-and-light of five o'clock in the morning, if we were to play the tape in reverse.  There is no moment which more energetically rebels against definition than five o'clock on a Sunday morning.  It is the in-between moment of the in-between day, where light and darkness meld together like life and death.  It is the moment when I eat the dead flesh of a pig to give me life.  It is the moment when I think, 'death probably can't be so bad.'
And then I think of my dog.  He was mostly dark but he had some light.  He's dead now, but he's alive in my memory.  So, I wonder, what does that make him?

Five o'clock on a Sunday morning.



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