Yesterday before Tomorrow.

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I live in sense memory.  I collect the way I feel when I experience the stimulus of life, memorabilia to remind me that it's okay to exhale, but even better to inhale into a fresh sprout of basil.  I like this about Spring, the sleepy way it reminds you to stay green yourself.  Everything has a memory to anchor itself to, and it's just making sure you don't forget to cast it once in a while.  To stay grounded, to not forget you once were just a kid who read book in Kentucky.  You once were a kid who called his mother a bitch on the phone and didn't hear from her for three days.  You once were a kid and you knew that because every sense and touch was new and exciting, everything electric and holy in the way that you felt guilty about later. I'm a firm believer in hedonism, in the luxury of overindulgence.  I believe in the grounding power of an oversized coffee mug and its contrast to the tiny lemon bar you pair with it.  I believe it's all healthy; I don't try to follow any diet.  There are no calories in memories, in the memories of being young.

Yesterday was a day of senses.  A day of smells and sounds that seemed so inconsequential, but so necessary for me to piece together.  The fur that brushed my cheek, the way hose water smelled differently than the tap, the way the grass dried yellow in patches and the gardener couldn't do a comb-over on it.  The way the sand gritted in my teeth and I tasted it as I went to bed, and the way flesh felt sateen flesh when hands are grasping for more blanket.  Everything, every atom and molecule of puppy snores and the sizzle of condensation when taking the coffee pot off became a lithograph of pure California, whose only impurities are in the water supply.