Pajama Poetry
I wear my pajamas into the garden paired with a sweater and a big straw hat. Three kittens are packed into their stroller, and I roll them out under the boughs of the berry bramble to watch bumblebees and hummingbirds. Usually, I water while they take in the sights, sounds, and smells. This time I drink Jasmin green tea and attempt to read a book about Haiku after journaling.
My journal is a leather sleeve I purchased at a drugstore 20 years ago. A new plain notebook slides into the sleeve every quarter or so, thus I never worry about making those first marks in a beautiful new journal, or picking the perfect new notebook. The sleeve is wearing handsomely along the spine, and one of the two elastic pen holders sewn to the inside lolls flaccidly out the side like a dog’s tongue but still holds a pen perfectly well. I write with erasable Pilot Frixion pens, which further relieves any sense of permanence that might inhibit me, and I replace the ink cartridge when it is spent rather than discarding the whole plastic pen.
A kitten mews. I determine that she was complaining to one of her siblings of having been jostled or sat upon. I have found the secret to happiness in wearing pajamas most of the day while playing outside. My wardrobe mainly consists of pajamas. I know we can’t all always do this, and some of us would actually prefer not to. In P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves story, The Aunt and the Sluggard, enlightenment poet and recluse Rockmetteller Todd exclaims, “Do you realize that most days I don’t get out of my pajamas till five in the afternoon, and then I just put on an old sweater?” Upon hearing this, poor Jeeves, ever passionate about style, winces.
I am not a Jeeves. I’m a Rockmetteller, a caricature of Whitman or Emerson, inspired by bees caught in my pajama sleeves. I wish for all humans to be so free if they would, to be so silly if they could bear it.
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