the colors of the day

Music fills the house in an endless stream. The cat scuttles about; the dog sleeps. Gluey oatmeal bubbles on the stove. Stacks of books topple from the coffee table trunk, and my handweights sit in the corner, gathering a guilty layer of dust. Our entire living room has an amber haze, a blending of morning sunlight, the apricot-cinnamon wall color, and the rusty brown of the old wood floors.

Nipper, the RCA dog, peers down from atop the TV armoire toward the radio cabinet that houses our record player and stacks of vinyl. It’s an odd assortment of childhood Christmas records, $3.00 thrift store discoveries, and my dad’s old collection. Captain and Tennille rest atop Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, while Frank Sinatra perches crookedly at the top of the pile, his wilted plastic cover rumpled undeservedly. I can spot Tom Waits' Mule Variations easily from the sofa, its bold white against black letters waving to me. I bought the album for Jeremy for a 1st anniversary gift…number 3 on side 4 is "Take It With Me," the song of our first married dance.

Jeremy clinks his spoon, eating breakfast at his desk while watching a documentary on the computer. I can tell because of the slightly British, very serious narrator voice, the one that's only found on documentaries and from Charlie’s science teacher in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Documentary Man abruptly morphs into Jon Stewart from The Daily Show. The music has stopped and has become a random smattering of un-related television clips via download. Now it’s Paula Zahn. This is the way he watches real TV too: five seconds of one show, three minutes of another. As soon as you give in and finally let yourself become engrossed in Archaeological Finds of Ancient Egyptian Catacombs, he’ll switch the channel mid-scene, just as they are unveiling the tomb of Tutankhamen’s brother and you’re holding your breath in suspense. He’ll jolt you out of your trance into something a world away and ridiculous, like South Park or that show with Flavor Flav, where he’ll pause for a quick laugh before moving over to CNN. It’s a dizzying process, but has become almost endearing. Almost.

The dog is up now and so is Jeremy. They have stopped the madness, and together gone out to mow the six-foot-long grass. It’s been neglected the past two weeks while Jeremy has been hunkered down in his studio writing music for his new record, which begins Monday. So now, the distant buzz of the mower competes with the hum of the dishwasher cleaning sticky oatmeal bowls, which competes with the occasional scamper of cat paws across the floor planks.

I don’t have much planned for today. Odd for me, a planner. I may head back to the fabric store to hunt for more swatches, or rearrange the spice cabinet. (I just know there are plastic baggies of paprika spilling into the bay leaves and tamarind back in the shadows.) Neither seems like an interesting way to occupy a Saturday, so maybe I will paint instead. I am working on four projects at once and need the satisfaction of completing something monumental, more than just muffin-baking and sorting jars for a change. We’ll see.