the new kitten we now have since last night after a couple of friends and I kidnapped it from a guy who was trying to sell it for beer money. I am shooting for the names Doris or Lloyd, because the Palinode's suggestion of Beef Texan just doesn't fly with me.
hot coffee with hazelnut flavoured cream.
remembering that orange grove in California that we stopped at when I was eight and the tiny, orange kitten that tried to come away with us in our station wagon.
the following horrible slang term for women's breasts: sweater meat.
watching gophers stuff their faces with tufts of grass with which to make their underground nests.
how the strong smell of Compound W makes my apartment smell temporarily like a factory. Vive le prolétariat!
the kind of wind that flattens the treetops but does not touch the ground.
the Palinode's voice over the telephone. He used to do voiceover narration when his ex-employer needed a Distinguished Older Gentleman voice.
the world greening in spring.
the heater under my desk that is presently keeping my ankles toasty.
chickens, which I dreamt were made of pressed spinach last night.
vintage post-mortem photography. Something about the passivity of the deceaseds' faces and the expressions of their family members hooks into my brain.
bunching up fresh grass between the line of my toes and the ball of my foot.
the smells that yellow makes me recall even if I am not that fond of the colour itself.
people who are kind to others whom they do not know.
water over stones in shallow brooks.
photographs in which not all of the people are completely within frame.
the sounds that our cats made this morning which made me think we had cougars.
junk. Piles of junk spark my creativity like nothing else. Give me dusty piles of forgotten things in people's attics, garbage dumps, or charitable second-hand stores, and I feel like hugging the whole mess to my chest as though they are my lost children.
watching big, fat worms work their way into the dirt.