Sunday, February 13, 2005

Transitions, Part II

Segovia accompanies my morning procrastination. Bean soup has been started, the idea of baking cookies is rolling around in my brain. Would it be better to bake or flop down on the futon in the tv room and pop in an old movie? Hm...I could do both. I could. Coy howls from behind the fence (yes, the forlorn chocolate lab has returned to torture us and be tortured), the sky is heavy today, pressing down on my will to exercise my brain or accomplish things I know I'll be glad I did later--taxes and The Novel, specifically. But blogging is writing, right--isn't that what counts, that I'm putting virtual pen to virtual paper?

I'm also recovering a bit from yesterday's sojourn into Berkeley. An old friend is going through a rough patch, so we decided to get together on the spur of the moment. We visited a lovely snooty sewing store, then took a long walk along the hilltops in Tilden Park, far lovelier than the sewing shop. It was hazy but warm and sunny yesterday, and I found even the cow flop on the trail charming--it felt very far from civilization. Friend and I had a long talk, and it brought up a lot of hard memories for me. It's funny how transitions can make you take a hard look both forward and back at the same time. Is it A Good Thing that my upcoming wedding is also making me talk and think about my divorce?


For anyone interested, the tale of Ratty, the airborne car sales rodent, now has an illustration.


More evidence that the house may be haunted: I was preparing to greet the sand man last night when Tomcat, curled on my chest, suddenly leapt a foot in the air from a dead sleep, landed on my face, bounced two feet into the air (taking two chunks of my cheeks with him), hit the floor in a crouch and cowered. I tried to pet him, but he was too freaked, and skittered out of the room. Rising to use the bathroom and hour later, M reported that Tomcat was still wigged out. He seems fine today and my punctured cheek isn't too painful or ugly, but it was very disturbing.


Segovia has stopped his picking, and now the only sound it the clock ticking, hint, hint, hint, hint...Time to *do* something...


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