don’t want writing to be a hoarding of memories, a desperate and tedious grasp for passing time. i want words to add richness and textures to my days. a filtering of thought. a distillation of experience. so my hours don’t disappear in a half-conscious haze.

Kitten suddenly seems grown up, a little more mellow, a little sweeter, a little better at caring for others. he’s a good snuggler… sleeps on my chest, rolling about, rubbing his forehead against me, stretching his paws against my chin, not caring where he ends and i begin.

a couple of weeks ago, White Kitty got on the bed by himself, using his stepping stool and a little prompting from M. i thought to myself, remember this. White Kitty walked onto the bed by himself today.

he has been so weak all summer. lying under the clothes drying rack “tent” most of the day, wide-eyed and ill at ease. requiring regular coaxing for trips to the litterbox. there is a big list in my head of things White Kitty doesn’t do anymore, and his walking onto the bed was a significant triumph to cling to.

but right now, at this moment, he is sleeping soundly on the bed with Kitten to one side and M to the other. he was the first to bed tonight, climbed right in with no one else about the room. a little later Kitten added himself to the scene, and we found them curled up together, Kitten’s face buried in White Kitty’s side. that’s after sleepy mornings and evenings in bed with us yesterday and today. he slept soundly enough this morning to twitch, soundly enough this evening to growl in dreaming (hope he caught something good). we are having a couple of really good kitty days.


read Aimee Bender’s “The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake” in one day–1.5 sittings, one long overnight marathon that consumed me until 4am. it broke me into pieces–the 8-year-old emotional wunderkind, a mother who needed mothering. it made me feel real, made me wonder if she grew up like me.

i have a particular fondness for the name Rose because of Doctor Who. it was the way her name was uttered in those series, wonder and longing.

been thinking about the particular pathos of emotionally precocious children. there is no “don’t grow up too fast” and “aren’t you a special kid” for their particular brand of intelligence. only “don’t be silly” for the unhappiness we sense and the intangibility of burdens we don’t know how to carry.

i was a smart kid, very smart. but i wasn’t “the smart one,” because that title had already been claimed by the eldest.

Bender is all lit fic and magical realism and delicate hearts. improbable to the modern American aesthetic. she is a literary paradox that makes me feel a little safer in this world.

i’m out of my element in my new field of study. it’s a daily bruising of ego to be in class, a bath of inadequacy. i dash myself to pieces trying to catch up, trying to be like them, wilting into an insecure, impoverished version of myself. i forget who i am. i need these thoughtful, delicious, artful books as reminders.

life belongs to the observant.