met Mozart on the walk home today. most kitties are hot dog shaped; he is cottonball shaped and mostly fur. he was quite busy, stalking and pouncing after two adolescent squirrels. large cute fluff chasing little cute fluff. he came to me straight away; scritches trump hunts.
i like our word games. cop a feel, feel a cop, Mr. McFeely is not a cop; at Dirty Frank’s i’m the vegetable, and he’s the wurst.
sitting at the window of a single-origin, farm-to-cup cafe cum roaster; drinking my Ecuadorian macchiato. a man strides past with 8 yellow roses in hand. he is thin and unkempt; his dusky t-shirt overly large; the flowers naked, free of obligatory greenery, wrapping, ribbons. my mind leaps to calculations about this man who is not the median of my experience; inferences about his incongruous bouquet. pity. then guilt–he is the hero of his story.
have to make it to that fancy flower shop by 7 tonight, just before closing time. it’s Bernice’s birthday today, and yellow roses are her favorite. has been since she was 5. they throw away loads of perfectly good flowers on Tuesdays; bound to be a few yellow roses. such beautiful things for nothing. mama will be proud. and Bernice will be tickled.
i feel i’ve spent my entire adult life waiting… i’m not sure what for. the perfect moment; metamorphosis; clarity. perfection. i’m too old for “when i grow up” thoughts.
life is understood in great swaths but lived in moments; strings of minute endeavors.
it’s difficult to wash the dishes, weed the garden, to work while so overwhelmingly aware of the emptiness, meanness, gloriousness, bigness of life; or is that of humanity. one could shut ones eyes and live a happy life; or risk glances into the precipice in exchange for a meaningful one. a meaningful life isn’t planned; it’s constructed from the pieces in front of you.
kitten has a wooly pompom he carries in his mouth, while walking about, yeowling in loneliness. then he sees me (or his papa) and promptly abandons the ball to hurry over for a snuggle. the other day, i hear M walking up the stairs towards me, making cat noises along the way. i look up as he appears in the doorway, wooly pompom in hand, held aloft near his mouth then dropped to the floor.
Michel Gondry’s “Mood Indigo/L’Ecume des Jours.” we occupy a mere slice of the infinite ways to eat, drink, dress, make, grow, love. putting away silliness is often the darkening of a region in the heart. pianos can make drinks if we wish. music can make the room feel spherical; dancing can make you feel tall. anything that makes one’s heart grow is worthwhile.