spit, swish, spit
Least of all me, nobody can think all the time, much less always be thinking about things eternal and unseen. Or maybe some can, what the heck do I know; but not me. This morning I got up late, after four o’clock, acknowledged mother nature and old father time, cursed the clock and snuggled snugly back under the sheet on the bed in the Bay bedroom thinking of nothing but to doze until time to walk three hours thence. As sleep returns, suddently a buzz and a flashing light. My phone with me all night in case Tass, Malinda or Kristen calls, I leap up awake, alert, alarmed. Linda’s iPhone flashing news: in response to U.S. indictment FIFA officials have been arrested on corruption charges.
My older model iPhone sleeps on. But not I. Damn the instant news anyway.
Maybe this is the morning to write about bathroom habits. By late high school years it became necessary to shave every morning. Razor with doubled-edge Gillette blade that I changed every couple days, dropping used blade down slot in side of medicine cabinet: nine thousand years hence, archeologists will be able to tell much about our civilization. Brush with bone handle. Smelling nice, marked “Yardley,” and shaped to fit the palm, a small wooden bowl with wooden lid. The good old days were best. Wet brush, vigorous circle motion on soap in wooden bowl, lather face, shave. Stiptic wet and ready. Run stripe of Ipana full length of toothbrush, brush teeth with mouthful of foam, spit, rinse, spit.
Some years later, in response to cute and catchy roadside signs, I switched to a can of Burma Shave. Per instructions on can, shake can, squirt golfball-size ball of shaving creme into other hand, lather face, shave with Schick razor, click-click dispenser changes instantly, easily, daily if feeling flush, without slicing finger tips and less wear on stiptic pencil to dab bloody chin.
Life moves from 18 toward 81. Pea-size is sufficient. Pea-size drop of Crest and swish with FoxListerine. Pea-size dab of Barbasol (89 cents a can, cheapest for the cheap): purpose is not to soften the beard anyway but to paint the face white so I can tell where still needs scraping with the everlasting Gillette that needs a new blade annually.
Another day: sacred shampoo story.
From the ridiculous to the sublime.
Walking day, but I can't remember whether it's seven, seven-fifteen, or seven-thirty.