then i went looking for beauty, but my eyes were youknow and blahblahblah, so i had to turn out the lights and lay in the dark, rubbing dobby's belly.
dobby said, "one word about youknow and blahblahblah and i'm outta here." so he was able to stay, get a belly rub, and a sleep.
marmy went to the vet. i wanted to go with but got the old "oh no you don't have to..." which is his youknow and blahblahblah. they said she did not have an eye infection and sent her home with antibiotics. sigh. the vets see fred and hear the dulcet tones of the cash register.
she's been hiding in the base of the cat tree all day. it's a cat tree house, made of good carpet, shaped like a tree. and -- like i said, before i started worrying that you'd think she was stuck outside in an actual tree -- she's been hiding in its base ever since her return from the animal doc.
fred filled the bird feeders for me.
i went looking for beauty and there is beauty's set up, in seeds put into five feeders, waiting for the sunrise.
tomorrow morning, after a night of youknow and blahblahblah, will be one of the last crisp mornings. italian roast with half a scoop of so-so espresso, not an ideal combination for a café press, but i've tweaked it to my liking. some milk. a spot in front of the window, or maybe, depending, out on the deck.
there will be all night radio, like the past two nights. i want to read but i can't because, well, youknow and blahblahblah. while in 19th century istanbul, yashim the eunuch sits on his divan and waits.
it has been and i suspect will be, for a few more days, a very jd salinger bit of time. i am feeling very populated by the glass family, very zooey, very franny, very buddy, missing seymour. the twins? oh, wait, walt's dead, and walker is a priest somewhere. shouldn't they all be dead by now?
hanging with my kind, i flatter myself, at home, in bed, cozy with spiritual malaise and a sophisticate's neuroses.
Oh this happiness is strong stuff. It’s marvelously liberating. I’m free, I feel, to tell you exactly what you must be longing to hear now. That is, if as I know you do, you love best in this world those little beings of pure spirit with a natural temperature of 125, then it naturally follows that the creature you love next best is the person—the God-knower or God-hater (almost never apparently anything in between), the saint or profligate, moralist or complete immoralist—who can write a poem that is a poem. Among human beings, he’s the curlew sandpiper, and I hasten to tell you what little I presume to know about his flights, his heat, his incredible heart.