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Postcard of the Day



 
 

a Saturday afternoon in September

That's where I am in time, in one variation of its looping.

I've just broken out the auxilary CD/DVD read/write drive I bought months ago.  Imported "Back in the Day (remix)" from my Ahmad CD for starters, cuz it was back in the day that we used to use CDs.  Next up, and happening now, is the import of some Us Guys songs, originally recorded on cassette, then transferred to CD via primitive means.  The one I want to hear is one I've been reminded of, listening lately to a Craxy Ex-Girlfriend song I didn't like at first but now love:  Nathaniel's demonstration of about the least appealing stuff to say to get the girl to sleep with you, "Let's Have Intercourse."  At one point in there he sings, before he muses how "I won't be back to normal 'til I see what your nipples look like--- they're prob'bly straightforward nipples", "Once we do it it'll be like 'Oh, that's what that was like' ", and that sorta reminds me of how in this song of mine from years ago, "I Wanna Make Love to Sara (The Tent Song)", there's this line about how I wanna make love to Sara and "think back on how it went".

Imagining what it will have been like after it's happened--- that's a particular sort of anticipation.  :)

I was at the library earlier.  Have had just the leading edge of a headache toying with my brain, off and on, today.  But I did read some at the library, and brought home some books, after writing a coupla pages in my paper journal.  It'd been almost a year since I'd done that.  During a good hunk of that time, however, in my "defense," I couldn't find it.

Now I have no scheduled anything the rest of today, and I even decided I don't really need to do laundry, so it's just me and the kitty cats.  Little one Horky the Chiper Chip Chipper Mao is doing okay.  Still with the diarrhea, but the peeing is consistently happening, though I had a bit of a scare yesterday when all he'd eked out for most of a day was one small ball.  But then he's had 3 since then.  Gotta keep him using his own litter box, still, so I can monitor that.  Just have to pay attention to when the other guy's using it.  Right now I can easily tell their "products" apart, anyhow.

Lotsa quotation marks in this post.

Seems like reading Gatsby last weekend may be part of a shift back to reading for me, after many years of not so much reading.  I read all day at work, I would tell people.  But that might not be it.  Speaking of journals, I saw in an old one recently how when I met this one woman I know several years ago I had lotsa big notions about our being people of letters, both, and in some kind of fellowship that way.  It was pretty fuzzy.  I was not infrequently getting high then, so that's probably where the fuzzy came from, and the high-falutin' too.  But I had noted, and wrote, even then, how I'd long since realized I'd been more interested in the lives of writers than in their writing, in many cases.  Even when some of their writing I liked a lot, like, say, Frank O'Hara.  But, I mean, all those ex-pat types--- I wanted to read about how they were living, and it was that stuff in their writing I liked the most.  Or letters, maybe (particularly if illicit lesbian relationships were involved).

One of the library books that wasn't yet ready for me today but I'm quite looking forward to brings together the content and the life in a remarkable way.  It's called A Bubble; it's a board book an artist-writer made for --- well, here's the blurb:

Near the end of her life, surrounded by the nature and calm of Anacortes, Washington, Geneviève Castrée drew one final gift for her two-year-old daughter, the stunning board book A Bubble. Leaving behind a last note for a young child is an incomprehensible task; Castrée responds with grace and subtlety. Using precise, exquisite drawings of herself and her daughter, changes in their daily routines are depicted as a greater story unfolds. Castrée and her daughter float from page to page, encased in a bubble that protects them from the outside world. A contemplation of love and loss, A Bubble is a lasting declaration, a final memory, a comfort for others experiencing grief, and a beautiful archive of one of the world’s most talented cartoonist’s final artistic achievements.


Rather calls to you, no?

Meanwhile, I've got other things to check out.  Will tell you of that later, mebbe.

Good weekend to you.
 
 
 
 

The vet is encouraged.

I felt all discombobulated after talking to the shelter clinic woman today, while driving in to work.  Then as I started to pull into the parking lot, the hula hoopers were in the way, so I backed out and parked in front of a fire plug while we finished talking, then drove in the exit and did some repeated three-point turning to get in line to pull into a spot without plowing over any hip swingers.  Cuz I'm considerate like that.  There were too many lines of talk and layers of encoding in that phone call.  Plus I never did get coffee today, and now it's 1:10pm so I feel like I should just do without.  Maybe just the 10¢ cup, not "strong", when I go retrieve my nuked lunch in a minute.

But the call yesterday evening with the vet made me feel almost elated with my increased willingness to let hope in.  Like maybe he really will get better, and soon be able to run around and use whatever litter box and, I dunno, eventually sleep curled up next to his brother, if they're into that.

Just googled how to fix a calf cramp.  Dunno why but I've had one for the better part of a day now.  Like a knot in the calf.  It's unpleasant.

Enough me talking out my fingertips semi-randomly.  Time to retrieve that lunch.  Will give y'all a postcard shortly.
 

Postcard of the Day



 
 

Bow Tie Tuesday




Almost forgot to post this post, but I just put the new-ish cat to bed, after he may very well have had a normal pee (!).  I was absorbed in the latest Love & Rockets compilation and didn't notice quick enough to zip over to the box and listen carefully, but if my impression about when he got in the box is right, he must've produced the little ball of pee in about a regular time for a cat, and (if so) that would mean he couldn't have spurted for 7 minutes.  Possibly couldn't have been spurting in little spurts at all!  He proceeded to have some more smooshy "applesauce" poop, but, hey, this sure seems like a good sign.

Tomorrow I'm calling the vets to tell 'em what's been up the past several days, and I'm also calling the shelter woman, who left me a message Friday.  Won't it be something if the little guy doesn't need that surgery?  I'm way far from counting any chickens, but I feel hope.

:

 

Postcard of the Day



 
 
 

Labor Day Sunday

The cats and I are hunkered down in the cat room while I wait and hope Chirper (today's nickname) will pee and I will get the latest info on his abilities in that regard.  I went ahead and opened the window to the lazy rain on the sea of green out back. It's peaceful while we wait, with a small thread of the underlying tension running low, like creatures in that 6-inch floor of undergrowth brush, barely noticed consciously, if at all.


It's felt strange, as it has to me only since I became a Michigander, to start putting long pants on my legs again, now that the heat is dying away. Nothing like this northerly swatch of the country to make me appreciate summer, and glory in it with exposed skin for long stretches.


This weekend I've been reading Gatsby. It's been many years. It's good to be reading it as the me of now. Sweet, and harsh.  I liked the opening so much when I was younger that I memorized it, in all its other-guy's-moccasins glory. But this time I was struck much more by the line a little later, when Nick tells us, after musing on the habits and types of experiences the resulting attitudinal stance had led him to, what now feels like the driving impetus of the narrative: "And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on."

I may've laughed out loud at that bit, when it slapped me in the face this time. Me too, Nick, I wanted to say.  Me too, I hope.

Handily enough, I routinely forget plots. I forget them so thoroughly that I can re-read even the P. D. James mysteries I like so well with no idea of who done it (just maybe a vague recollection that, like, something in the boat is important). This is true for Gatsby & co. too. I can still tell you that there's symbolic significance to the green light at the end of Daisy's dock, that having been part of an essay of mine from the early days of practicing formulaic rhetoric, but I don't remember what happens, and had forgotten a lot of characters. Funny how it can be a gift, in yet another way, to forget; to have forgotten; to be able to forget.

 

Postcard of the Day



 
 

Postcard of the Day



 
 

Bow Tie Tuesday





I don't want to go to the grocery store.  I don't want to cook dinner.  I want to have dinner ready when I get home, via picking it up on the way there.  Then I want to have an easy night of tending to the new/ailing cat and no big chompin' bites from the old/aging cat and some dumb TV and a restful night's sleep.

This is what I want.

:

 
Janus
fflo
'Ff'lo

Hello.

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Postcard of the Day

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"What was once thought cannot be unthought."

-- Möbius, The Physicists

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"The moment of change is the only poem."

-- Adrienne R.

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