Tuesday, July 15, 2014


Tupelo and Emmylou both wanted their evening graze, notwithstanding the threatening weather. A couple of times today is has flat-out-poured straight down. And it is supposed to be like this all week. It is so weird to me, although it shouldn’t be, that I am turning into my mother who goes and sits in her yard to hang out with her cats. Evidently, my grandmother (died before I was born) did this as well, sit in the garden with the cats.

Now the birds are teasing and tweeting directly at Emmylou who has picked out her favorite spot in the driveway. She sits there and will just get underneath the car if it happens to be parked over her spot. She’s a cat who knows what she wants.

There was one point today wherein I was just standing still in the kitchen having a munch and feeling the sweat pour down my back. Inclement.

It’s hard to keep packing, but I did shed some more clothes today. Now, I am down to the niggetty odds and ends. I also sorted through some necklaces and earrings and put some in a bag for the thrift store. I usually wear the same couple of pairs anyway. Little by little, right?

Tupelo, being quite orange, is quite bright against the green of the lawn and foliage. I would like to go in and keep working (hard enough to do) but the kittehs are enjoying so much, I cannot deny them. Emmy has decided to stalk Tupelo. She has a much better chance of apprehending him than the birds.

Tuesday. The weather is so wet, it gives an approximation of what it is to be a fish. Everything is sticky, the floor being particularly disgusting given that I am almost always barefoot. The couch is soggy. Ugh.

JV picked up The Poet's Guide to Life: The Wisdom of Rilke. I've been perusing for inspiration. I have liked the poetry I have read, but this book is pretty cool. A sampling (the first of several, I should imagine).

A failure ought not to be a disappointment for those who take on the most extreme challenges and do not settle comfortably in what is modestly proportioned; it is the calibrated measure of our endeavors that is not even meant to be referred to our feelings or to be used as evidence against our achievements, which after all incessantly reconstitutes itself from a thousand new beginnings.

None of you are ever allowed to quote this back to me.

On to the rest of the day.

No comments:

Post a Comment