Host of Sundays.

Ever since I was a child, Sundays have been lazy to no end for me. Sweeping up memories of being a wee lad, I remember going to church, being tired the whole time and falling asleep in the service after Sunday school. Usually after the tithe envelopes were completely doodled or the supplied tiny pencil was dulled from drawing. I remember coming home after church with my dad in our Cadillac and we fell asleep in the driveway with the windows down on a nice spring day. We were so tired we couldn't even make it inside to start our Sunday naps. I'm sure I wanted to go in but he was the one with the keys. A lot of my memories of my dad are sleepy, but that's another therapy session, errr, blog entry, altogether. There was a Sunday where I was terrorizing the anthill in the back yard with sticks and I got bit on the tip of my left (I'm left handed) index finger by a fire ant. My hand ached all the way up into my armpit. I couldn't rouse my dad from his Sunday afternoon amp so I just laid down beside him and slept it off. I remember feeling feverish and waking up sweaty. On a slightly unrelated note but a glaring nod to my childhood identity, after I awoke I razed that anthill with the all of the tenacity of revelations and none of its grace. If ants go to heaven, these sure went to hell first. I dug up the anthill with a shovel and poured red jugged gasoline into it. I burned that poor antropolis to the ground like late 19th century Chicago.
I'm not sure where my mom and sisters were on these Sunday afternoons; perhaps their Sabbath comas hit them before they could even leave the church parking lot. Now I'm a youngish man and I even still I can't shake the Sunday slumber. I haven't been to church in years. My internal clock shouldn't tick differently then it does on say Saturday. But somewhere in my brain all of my tired stores up and breaks out every seventh day. I mean, I'm tired the other six on most accounts but Sunday is the day I can't face it. I take it lying down. Now that this college boy has turned into something of a workingman doing the nine to five grind, I have some semblance of normality.
Routine?
I guess that's what it's called. Frankly I hate it, because it puts Sunday at the bottom the week-mountain and the weight of the week prior and the week post slide in from either side. Maybe I need to get out of this town, maybe the trees don’t seem sleepy elsewhere, I really only know this place that I’ve grown up in. I lived in a big city for ten months but I was too young to know anything. Show me a twenty year old who knows what it is to be too tired to sleep and I’ll show you the cans from the beer I drank last night just to fall asleep early enough to wake up for all of today. Anyway, If there were a way to unhinge Sunday from my week and slide in a Saturday, I surely would do it.

hear here.

I apologize if you check this blog very often. there's stuff I write here and then it just stays drafted. Counter-intuitive of a blogger's role I know.

I house sat a home studio last week and wrote a rock and roll song for my sisters.

it can be heard here.