The cats are on the mend, but the laundry pile is almost as tall as my dresser.
The first flower—a lone violet—appeared in the garden.
Even the garden seems hard hit by the unsettled state of the world. Everything just waiting, at least in this patch.
Tulips timid, the snowdrops late, but the laughing clematis puts forth its fuzzy buds.
April: shanti, shanti, shantih
Oh no,cats still sick.
More laundry.
The ocean is still here.
Blue Monument for Autism Awareness, 2019
I should be at a reading reception art opening at the Fine Arts Work Center right now, to meet the new co-director, and say hello to a few friends, but I have been administering to two sick cats. Ocean and Izzie are sick for the first time in the five years I’ve been their pet guardian. A messy, not-over-yet gastrointestinal bug that has kept them woefully occupied with their internals, for the past few days, and me wiping up at every turn. The we-are-so-lucky-to-have her vet has given them probiotics and bland food. Foodie cats (I mean, can they be anything but?) ie finicky, they are none too keen on the new stuff. I tricked the mama cat by coating her favorite treat with the med, and the kitten (5 years old now) ate a little of the new food because she is a bit more practical in her eating needs.
Last night, I read Hiro Akirawa’s The Travelling Cat Chronicles, which made me teary-eyed. At four am, I was woken up by the kitten who got all affectinate before throwing up a thin, clear, viscous spittle. It was a terrible sight to see her suffering so, and I am cringing as I write this. Meanwhile, I am blithely killing carpenter ants one by one, and really, now that I think about it, they do have personalitiies, don’t they, these ants? What am I doing? Have I not seen the dying fifty-nine-year-old(!) chimpanzee saying goodbye video?
Tonight, There is full loud chorus of birds (or frogs?) outside, and the monument is lighting up blue for Autism Awareness. It is the first new moon of the month, and I hope we all sleep well enough tonight.
This too is on my commute, though much better on foot.
-neath the water, the sand casts footprints.
A year of infinite promise.
