served on a bed of rice with a velvety reduction

The kitten turned off my computer, again.

I have to admit, it's one of the more clever things that she does.

Earlier this morning, she discovered her own reflection in a large mirror I have proped up against a wall. She ran back and forth, along with her own reflection, a million times. Periodically, she would stop to check behind the mirror to see if the "other" kitten was back there. Then she got wise, and backed up (so as to never take her eyes off this other kitten) and ran right into her own reflection.

Really, it was less like running and more like bounding, or something a kangaroo would do.

She's so plastic and light weight that she didn't get hurt or discouraged doing this. Because she did this many times. For about an hour. So, satisfied as I was that she was occupied, I went about my business. I made some coffee, cleaned off the table, looked at my bills. Then I went to check my email. That's when, without apology, the kitten walked over and switched off the computer.

Then she just walked away, like she was bored with the whole thing. Because normally, when she does this, she will wait over by the serge protector for me to arrive (my arrival being fairly immediate) so that, once I'm there (twisted in a position where I can not only see behind my desk, but also get my arm back there so as to extract this kitten from the scene of the crime) she (the big payoff, I believe) will proceed to use her small size and incredible quickness to narrowly escape being apprehended by me. And either run or roll away. Only to hide somewhere. For a duration of no less than forty minutes.

But not today.

It's like she's crazy - CRAZY to the point where one starts to think that it will never end. Then, abruptly (by the grace of God) she settles down to a more reasonable degree of activity. And then it's alright. Then it's like, everything is going to be ok.

Today I need to do some shopping. I need clothes.

It's funny, how I used to buy things at thrift stores because I liked to wear vintage clothes. And, how now I shop there because I can't afford anything else.

I feel as though I wear the same nine or ten things over and over at work. Probably because I do. I got rid of all of my clothes a few months ago. That was back when I still wore a uniform at work. Back when I didn't need so many clothes.

In the studio it is dusty and full of exposed nails and splinters. Everybody there dresses down. And, now, all nine or ten articles of my clothing are dressed-down items. Due to exposure to the studio. Which is fine. I guess I've developed a sort of uniform there, too. The constant being holes, dust and smudges.

I think it's time that I enforce an idea that I had developed years ago. That is, wear only black and red clothing. That's it. Maybe white (but only touches of white, like a bit of white collar sticking out - though, crookedly, like I don't care). That way, everything goes together.

I got the idea from something I had read about Diana Vreeland when I was in the sixth grade. She only wore two or three colors. Of course, she was rich and eccentric. She did this because her jewelry (more acurately sculpture, that is, artifact, bones; maybe pieces of mummies - much of it gifts from various designers and, presumably, archeologists) required a blank canvass of sorts as a back drop.

Of course, my mom wouldn't hear of it.

And, of course, I currently have no need for a blank canvass. Nor anything remotely like a tiger tooth or antler in the way of jewelery. Not that it was ever about that.

I could pretend that I did, but really what would that achieve?

I'm not into deluding myself. Not even in the name of Diana Vreeland. No. Quite the opposite. I like to look right into the ugliest, hardest to confront parts of my mind. And sort of sit there. With a bottle of vodka. And a couple of kleenexes.

I think I'll do it. The red and black thing.

"..becoming a caricature of oneself, that is, reducing the personality (as one might a red sauce) to a tincture of "persona" is every woman's priveledge, if not duty ..especially as she gets to be in her late thiries.. think Bette Davis.. think Endora from Bewitched.. those women didn't get that way overnight.."

So true.

If only I had a penny for each time I've been so instructed.

brain damage

I think I might have a touch of brain damage.

I've had a song stuck in my head for four days. I hear this song so much, that I don't even hear it anymore. Then I'll stop what I'm doing ..and wait, no, no ..it's still there.

It's always there.

I'm starting to think that there might be something wrong with me.

Me. My brain. Both me and my brain.

The Flower Called Nowhere, by Stereolab. It's supposedly about boats. Small boat. But I've come to the realization that it's about taking life for granted. And if you know this song, you know that it has a certain, spiraling-slowly-around-as-the-traffic-rushes-past-you, other worldly, sort of ..I do believe I am floating very pleasantly right towards disaster but it's so nice that I think I'll just keep going.. quality.

It's not for every situation. This song.

And hearing it in my head all of the time is starting to mess with my life. Particularly at work.

It all started a few days ago, after I hit my head at work. And I hit my head about a week before that, too. As well as about a month before that. And I had a serious head injury not too long ago.

So, I'm beginning to think that there might be a correlation. Between hitting my head and hearing this song.

I don't know. And I used to like this song.

I finally googled to find a solution to this problem. One thing I heard again and again was to simply listen to the song. Actually listen to it. In reality. On the disk. Reason being, that your brain might not be able to conclude the song. So, even as I knew that my brain knew the ending of this song, I tried this. A couple of times.

It was so boring. I have to say.

And it didn't work.

It's funny how slowly it dawns on a person that there might be a problem. At first, this didn't bother me. Of course not. It happens to all of us. When does a day go by where you don't hear somebody say, ..Help! There's a song stuck in my head..!

But then a day does go by. And I'm thinking ..Ok, what song is going to get stuck in my head today?

And there it is. Again.

me and my piece of paper

Now spell check free!

The kitten is doing fine. Since you asked. It was touch and go for a minute. For instance, she will eat on her own one day, then require the eye dropper the next. Sometimes it's formula. Sometimes it's cat food. Sometimes it's neither.

I don't know what her deal is.

But it's ok. I'm going to cut her some slack for the time being.

Otherwise, I'm just sitting here. Waiting for my sandwich to arrive..

There was some minor drama in my life last week. Which, due to a need to write it down and sort it out, briefly necessitated that I start another blog. But only briefly. I didn't go through with it.

Too bad. What happened is unbelievable. That is, no one would ever believe me. And, funny to such a degree that I get chills just thinking about it. And the rest of it is just sad. However, in retrospect, the sad parts (which account for the remainder of what happened) are hysterically funny when taken out of context. With a small percentage of the whole thing (6%) being heartbreaking. With that 6%, I'm afraid, not at all being funny when taken out of context. And, if I may be so presumptuous, you would probably be disappointed in me for about 2% of the story.

And, I just realized, I have told no one what happened. Which is weird. It feels like I've told people about this.

As mentioned, I didn't write in the other blog. I did set it up, though. I chose a template and everything. I used my full name and social security number as both the address and title for this other blog. I felt such an address would, if nothing else, keep me honest as well as invite an whole new level of trouble into my life.

But I caught myself mid process, and aborted the whole thing. What was I doing?

I used to just write stuff and save it to a file. And, really, why can't I simply write on a piece of paper anymore? It used to be like that. Just me. Me and my piece of paper. No audience. Real or perceived. Just that of my pen.

Just the pen and me and a piece of paper and vodka.

And whenever too much paper or truth or lies ecrued, I would toss my couple of notebooks over a particular bridge into the Chicago River. Just toss them in. Or I would set them on fire. Just small fires in my kitchen sink. Harmless. A couple of sheets of paper at a time. No big emergency or anything. Though it smelled bad, and probably made the neighbors nervous. But it never set off any smoke detectors. Mostly because I disable all smoke detectors right off the bat. And it felt good. The purging, drowning, or otherwise burning at the stake of my diary. Obviously, this was before I had a shredder. Though, trust me, I've done that, too..

Not recently, though. Not recently enough.