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September 7th, 2000
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Or Something
The photograph of the kitchen window was taken last weekend. I walked around the house early one morning when I was alone and photographed the things I remembered. Over the last thirty years, when I've gone to our family gatherings in Seattle and stayed at my aunt's, we would sit at that kitchen table on a Sunday or sometimes a Monday morning after everyone else had gone and discuss the party of the night before, how everyone looked, the stuff that had happened since we'd last been together, usually in that kitchen, talking until the cab pulled into the driveway to take me to the station. You remember the little things, mostly, like these dumb little figurines, the color of the light reflected through them, talking, drinking coffee. There will be other family gatherings, we are decided on that, but there will be no more Sunday mornings at that table talking, waiting for a cab.
Well, let's see, it's a Thursday evening. Work has been hectic in the last week, but in a way I like.
The day goes fast, which is good, and you get the feeling you've actually accomplished something before you go home and turn your brain to mush. Wuss (I know, I know. The kitty cat, the kitty cat.) is still not eating as much as he was before I boarded him at the vet, but he seems better. I trimmed out most of the dry stalks of the catnip plant thinking I'd throw them into the trash, when I noted, even dead and dry they were pretty potent, making my eyes water and attacking my nasal passages. (I don't think that makes any sense, but I suspect there's a correlation there, the particles irritating my eyes also tweaking my nose. Reminds me of hemp.)
So I put them on the floor in the middle of a section of newspaper. And Wuss came over. And Wuss rolled around getting it all stuck in his fur like some ragamuffin cat, doing great languid long paw forward, tail back cat stretches and, I don't know, thinking cat thoughts of small rodents, mayhem and murder. I don't think it sharpened his appetite, but I've definitely got some vacuuming to do. All this excitement and it's only Thursday night! You begin to see why this bay area has such a wild ass wacko reputation in the hinterlands!
OK. OK. It's hormones or something.
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The photographs were taken in Seattle last weekend. The quote under The Sole Proprietor title is by Seneca who undoubtedly first uttered it in Latin.
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