Today is Sunday- Shrek the third

I woke up this morning thinking of Sophia. I had a very restless night last night. I kept thinking of Chuck Liddell and how I wanted the result to be different. I felt terrible for him. I felt the same way a few weeks back when the Suns beat the Lakers. My night was consumed by the damp smell of my pillow and a bed that could not put my thoughts to sleep. At 6 am, when I finally decided that my attempts at sleeping were over, I could only think about staying in bed for the rest of the day. I wanted to whittle away on the pine that was growing out of my thoughts about Sophia. It was such an oddly, comfortable feeling to have the heaviness and lack of desire to move, think or do anything. I could actually still smell Sophia in my sheets and every time that I heard my house creek from the wind outside I yelled out to Sophia and asked, 'How are you, sweetie?'. Unlike Rilke, my yells went into an echo; an empty response from my very, lonely house asking me how I was.
I thought of my father, many, many years ago, proposing to my mother in Trieste. His recount was so beautiful and romantic; full of hope and want for a joyful future. How is it that the love that my father has toward my mother has now materialized into the futile actions of a bachelor in his late, late 30s? Sure, I am a success outside of my skin in the business world, but internally, I am largely a miserable, miserable, lonely man. I wanted to phone Sophia, but I could not. Instead, I slowly drifted back toward sleep and began to dream lightly about better times.
Sophia is sitting in my backyard. She is wearing, of course, a short sleeved top, and is bra-less. The cold outside and the warmth inside of her causing her nipples to protrude into the counter die of her shirt fabric, embossing an image of lust and desire upon me; a Medusian figure turning me to stone, hard wooden rock. She is wearing my shorts and has them rolled up at the knees and at the waist. She is 5' 6" or so and about 105 lbs. She is all leg and arm bones. She is not dwarfed by my shorts which gives me a sense of my own stature, but it is a deceptive notion of self. She is sitting on one of the recycled wood plantation lounges, and her hair is up- as usual. She appears to be shaking, either from the brisk air or the need for nicotine, and as she strikes and lights the match, her goose flesh and shivers slowly begin to fade and minimize. She inhales deeply into her first cigarette, pausing for just a moment behind each drag and before each exhale.
Surya Namaskar.
I continue to watch her as she finishes the first cigarette and lights her second one.
Her hands are wide at the wrist, narrow through the palm and extend out in extremely sinewy, tenuous and easy tendrils. Veins and tendons bore through taut flesh, and make her hands look strong, supple and suggestive. Her hands have always made me smile; every time we see each other after an absence they are the first thing to make contact with me- whether on the belly, back, cheek, ear, hair or heart. I wish her hands were here, right now, to close my eyelids and gently push me back into the false reality of sleepless dreams. Between hits, the cigarette floats between digits 2 and 3 re-secured in place every few seconds by the gentle grasp of her lips and the hungry sucking of her lungs.
Savasana.

When I finally got out of bed at around 10, I called my doctor and asked for some help. He called in a favor at Riteaid which I picked up on my way to see Shrek the third. Two bloody Marys, a favor from my doctor, and some shake led me to the back row, left side, end seat of the darkened theater. I had on my cycling sweatshirt, jeans, and clogs. The darkness was soon filled with excited, maybe anxious, childish laughter and screams. The din (cliche') was disorientating and made me seek shelter under my hood. In a moment of absolute clarity and a bit of out-of-body self awareness, I realized what I must look like- the ominous, lonely, hooded figure lurking in the back row of a theater filled with children. The giant, colorless, soulless Actiniaria waiting for helpless prey to skip by on their way to the bathroom or for more snacks. If one could just come within arm's reach. I chuckled, perhaps a bit too loudly, but retreated into the uncaring comfort of my doctor's favor.
The movie finally began, quieting the children. After a few moments of reintroductions of all the characters, and after a few 'slapstick' and seemingly violent humored scenes, the movie turned existential. The king, a frog, was dying. A slow, awkward death that sought to be humored but was actually a bit boring and monotonous. When the frog finally croaked (wow bad pun, I get it now), a tiny child (maybe 3 or 4 years old) sitting a few rows up with his family started to weep. He was immediately comforted by his father, I assume, but to no avail. He continued to weep and was unable to find any solace in the darkened humorless movie. I continued to watch this family, and realized that this movie was not meant for children. This young boy could not be soothed, and his older sibling kept hiding behind her hands and kept shirking any joy or laughter. The movie kept going on with little regard for the audience and ended as an embarrassing story that was only filled with the bravado of CG. I was relieved when the lights came back on signaling the end of this disaster. None of the children clapped or cheered at the ending; and the theater was packed with children; in fact, they all seemed relieved, as well, that the nightmare was over and that they could, finally, go out into the sunshine and restart their childhoods which were taken from them in a darkened theater by the green ogre. Pretty fitting since ogres eat children in the fairy tales.
I am a bit tired. I thought of Sophia all day, and until now, did not think of 'yellow panties'. I am looking forward to sleeping all day tomorrow.
Xioba