caesura

 I'm closing the blog for a spell until the AI bots from Brazil get bored and move along. Not much to share here anyway at the moment. Writing makes for a poor audience experience.

In the meantime, be good to yourself. Reach out to your neighbors as you can. 

Email works just fine.

I have writing to do. 

Upcountry

In three weeks, he's grown. 

And going through one of the minor rights of passage, a fracture. All things considered, we heave a sigh of relief for good care and a good prognosis. And he thinks nothing of getting back on an electric scooter.

The splint in a sling will be replaced by a hard cast on just his forearm tomorrow. 

Jake went to pains to make sure his costume fit over the splint and his hair was just right for a trunk-or-treat event on Friday. A dry run for the real thing on Halloween. 

The last time I visited, I spent most of the time ministering to Ms. Nibbler, who scared us all with a few days of refusing to eat or drink anything and some hostile behavior.  Very small in the first place, her little cat liver could not afford the stress, and her attitude on a good day is "Hi there. Now, fuck off."

With tools and tips from her vet, meds, and a little force-feeding (quick and firmly are key) she's made a full recovery and was sassing and photobombing us all day.

Back home, I was greeted with more feline hijinks. A shitbox that needed a bulldozer and nice long cat naps. 

My Waterman finished the tournament season with yet another championship in an insane sport. I'd watch baseball, but the MLB has decided that ordinary people have to pay an arm and a leg to see the game played. When I'm in the mood, I'd rather listen to it on the radio, commercials and all.

There's not a lot of "seasonal" in Georgia that moves me, but a nice pomegranate will do it. My mother loved them. 

I guess they've always been expensive. It's nice to be in a place in life where I don't have to share one with my sisters and my mother, 

But I would if I could.

This brings me to thoughts of people who will be going hungry in the coming weeks due to the venal cruelty of the Idiot-in-Chief and his asskissers. 

I'll be taking advantage of the BOGO where I can, and leaving the extras with a local food pantry. 

Cat and dog food, too. 

This will be the extent of my holiday spending.

Everything in my studio has grown eyes and teeth and is causing me a few foolish grins.

Best of all, the writing groove deepens. I may have Slash & Burn wrapped up by the end of the year. 

Complaints (or move along)

 

It's dropped into the forties overnight, and I have yet to turn on the furnace. For the first time in my entire cat-enslaved life, I have two (almost) cuddlers. 

You see them all over the internet, feline yin and yangs. I thought it was a myth. 

What we have here is a deep sleeper and a furred bulldozer. The sound of twin engines running is an opiate. And good thing, cause I'm bitching.

No, those are not my bones. That's my co-pirate's first fracture. I'll get to sign his cast tomorrow. 

My complaint? I decided to get all the jabs the other day. 

The technician said, "Right, left, or both?" 

"My left shoulder has been bothering me (keep lolling on the bed like Jabba the Hutt, propped up on that left elbow...) so let's give it something to really bitch about..." 

Since then, I've been buried under the feather comforter and cats, considering the error of my smartass ways.

It's fun to watch action movies with a cat who seems to be following what's happening. Barking dogs get her going. T

That's Leonardo DiCaprio in "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" doing what I'd like to do to the Shitweasel and his entire squad of asskissers.

R&R & what's next?

 

I wanted to have a quiet stitch this morning. Gather my thoughts and all. 

Then there was a twenty-minute bug hunt looking for the very last few yards of undyed, 6-strand DMC cotton.

The question is, do I go out and buy one or two skeins, or do I order the 2000-yard cone that usually starts each new dye season? 

I'll use up what I have, for now. Fuck Amazon. Fuck any retailing beyond life's necessities, like kitty litter and cat pate. 

    ~O~

On the No Kings gathering.

Suwanee Town Center Park was magnificent. I was there early, and while my friend and I had lunch outside, it looked like a typical, beautiful day in the park. Then people dressed in yellow, or carrying signs began arriving and heading for the registration area. The line of people holding signs and waving at passing cars grew quickly, wrapping around both the main streets that bordered the park.

Many of the cars passing by honked enthusiastically. It was hard to interpret the noise as anything but joyful.

I lucked into a parking spot right at the entrance to the park and across from the agreed-upon lunch spot. 

This is a magnificent public space. When Charlie was little, we used to come here for the splash pad. There are fountains now. I'll be coming back and posting more pictures. 

This was right at the entrance to the park. I should have brought my camp chair from the car. Instead, I stood as long as I could, then tottered to the nearest bench to rest. Then back to my post. It was the least I could do. Everyone there was so engaged in the purpose. 

I don't care that the Shitweasel was probably not shown images of the protests at every city, town, and podunk junction in the country. His handlers have seen it. Senators and congresspeople have seen it. They know where we stand. 

This morning I read that for every one person who attended the protests, there were TEN who wanted to.

THAT is a mandate.

Have you ever read beyond the first sentence? It's hard for me to say how much of the language is of its time and how much of it is deliberate lawyerese.

It's no wonder that people spend their whole lives becoming Constitutional Scholars. 


The day was a complete success. Uneventful until I got out of my car at home and closed the car door on my left ring finger.

I was able to get my rings off and ice it. This too shall pass.

No Kings

 For some reason, 50501 organizers have asked attendees to wear yellow. 

 A half century ago, I owned a chrome yellow satin blouse with full sleeves and three button cuffs. It zipped up the back to a high collar and fit like skin. With black jeans a pretty nifty outfit.

There was a party. I was standing in a crowded room with a drink in my hand and happened to catch a glimpse of myself reflected in a glass door. I looked like a BRIDGE OUT sign. I was mostly averse to wearing yellow after that. But then I thought about it and looked through the pictures and there I was with my pale yellow fuzzy Angora boobs,  my head in the boyfriend's lap right after we announced our engagement on Christmas morning. He loved that sweater.

Yesterday, a brief look to the closet proved nothing yellow. I might bring these creatures along as Guardians.

Midweek rushed by

We got what we asked for. A kitten for the kitten. The Elder cats are getting their rest and keeping their dignity. The humans of the household get to watch and accommodate all the feline needs.

The wild rumpus starts before dawn. Toy stealing. Running, tagging, clawing up and down my (already ratty) office chair. Digging around in the sandbox like somebody has a treasure map. 

But they nap like champs. For some reason, I've been calling Bong Moon. As in the Darkside Of. And little Miss Sophie is becoming that Long Tall Sally I saw in her from day one.

There's been a lot of time for mending, reading, writing, and anxious introspection.

Anyone who is not anxious about this upcoming weekend is in prison or a fool. At the very least, I'm hoping the perfect weather holds on. 

 And smack in the middle of the week, there was another birthday. Lunched with friends and spoke to everyone! Thanks to everyone who took the time to say hey.

For a while now, I thought I was turning 77. My sister, who is two years younger, dragged me over the coals for that mistake. 

At what age, and why, do we start using the expression, "I'm going to be __ years old"? 

When does that anticipation begin?

Was it 17? 20? 

Why keep doing it? What is the fucking hurry? 

Prepping

 

It's Indigenous Peoples Day. I found the shitweasels' Columbus Day proclamation particularly stomach-turning. Of course, he didn't write a word of it. That's all his little nazi, Stephen Miller. 

I haven't yet heard what poison he spouted in Israel. He and Netanyahu will be roomies in hell.

Getting my NO KINGS banner ready for Saturday. I'm not going to any organized event, but plan on parking in a public space somewhere that the ass end of my car will be visible to passing cars. 

Today, I'll be scoping out a few spots on my way to a celebratory lunch with friends. 

We will be eating outside at a local pizza joint, and I'm going to bring it with me to work on there. 

So far, this is the extent of fall foliage in Georgia. This poor maple was planted here by the parks department. It will not live long enough to get big. The summers are too long and dry, and the soil is too shitty for maples, but fools keep planting them. 

I sat in my car in the park, multitasking like a madwoman and relishing every moment. I don't take NPR for granted anymore. 

My phone was tuned to a live waterski competition where my waterman was taking yet another championship. There were two cannoli instead of a proper lunch, and I had a sheaf of printed pages to read and edit. 

Is this heaven?

The dailies

 

Free from the grocery store because they have my data.

Big update to the dirty thread store today. The light was right, and I made the time to get it done. 

I also finally got all the equipment cleaned and put away for the season. All that color in the sink gave me such a pang.

Something's afoot across the street at my friend's house. It's been empty since she passed back in January. Family came and took what they wanted, but no one has come since to care for the place. The beautiful pool behind the house is probably a loss. Her beloved Caddy rots in the garage.

I hope they are here to set things right.

The Elders tuck me in at night. On guard. The kids have to make do.

The dark

 

Not moon...

 

...at least not while I was still awake. It should have risen from the fork in that tree, but the clouds were creeping.  

I used to take my Tarot cards outside on the full moon. Outside, naked on the upper deck because Jim was watching from our bed. It's no fun with no one watching, and the cats don't count. Now I spread the cards out on the carpet by the glass door and say, "Good enough". 

Next night, another try looking out the kitchen window this time. SOMEBODY better cut that frigging weed down!

Also, I just finished watching the last episode of After Life with Rick Gervais on Netflix. If you've been left behind or lost someone, this will both put you through the wringer and restore you, scene by scene.

 I've also started calling the myriad assholes in my life "cunts". 

(Redacted dialogue)

"What's his name?" 

"Um....Jackson."

"I knew it. All guys name their cocks."

"Cock, you say?"

"Want me to say weiner or dingus?"

"Jeez, no, now that we're on a first-name basis and all. What do you call yours? Pussy?"

She made a face. "I hate pussy."

"Fine by me, but you know what I mean."

"In my tribe, we call it your Woman. "You got to work your Woman. Make her strong. Make them men faint when she grabs ahold dem."

"Amen!"

"Personally, I like the word 'cunt'."

"Ouch."

"Why? Four letters and straight to the point, just like cock. Serviceable, pardon the pun."

"Yeah, but the Brits and the Aussies ruined it, you know."

"Yep. Wore my cunt right out."

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Stop talking?"