This morning I woke up to heat all around me.  Heat that makes breathing hard, bodies uncomfortable.  I woke up and wanted coffee, as I usually do, yet the idea of pouring something hot into my already melted throat felt terrible.  As though it was my own idea to torture myself further into madness.  

I woke up feeling like the world can be so unnecessarily hot like this.  Not that sleep is always a fun or desired concept, yet the idea of living in your own consciousness is sometimes too much.  I appreciate this about sleep, the easy escape from the spiral of your own unnecessary, and oftentimes, crippling thoughts--heat of the world.   And then I think about babies. Babies and sleep. One of the most peaceful scenes. The little sucking noises they make. Their eyes as they dream, see something new.  Their breathing. And I wonder what I look like when I sleep, if there are any remnants of a baby left in me. I’m sure the caked drool and heavy breathing do not do justice to the way sleep was made, or perhaps it does.  Perhaps the messiness combined with the sweetness is the whole point.  

Since I was little I have danced in the kitchen.  My sister and I used to come up with dance routines to songs we found ridiculous.  Many of Justin Bieber’s Christmas albums. Those routines quickly morphed and spiraled into our own form of interpretive movement.  The kitchen felt like a safe place to let that flow. A creative area where new things are made everyday.  Seemed fitting. I also have grown to be very hesitant when I make things in the kitchen, for a reason I can’t always place.  Unsure if it is because it is a space contained with so many tools or just past experiences of anger in a kitchen. Anger stifles all creative energy, all worthy energy in a person.  So laughter and dance don’t flow, can’t flow. Yet, kitchens will always be warm for me, always smell either deliciously good or incredibly bad, which I think is the true craftsmanship of an artist, being able to make mistakes and do something with them.