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So somebody learned a new trick yesterday:

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She just gets a good jump start and claw runs all the way up a tree, and hops onto the roof; easy, breezy, beautiful. And then she wanders around for an hour or so meowing mournfully; and then when you try to help her down she scratches you and runs away.

I imagine that our two cats one house problem is henceforth solved. One cat has claimed the entire roof as her mountaintop territory, and I expect to mostly never see her again. Except when it gets dark and cold and she actually wants to come down.

Probably I will join her up there soon, and then the world can do without us both, and we will be very tan. I wonder if cats tan?

I am

what I stumble upon

May 3, 2013

It’s that kind of day where you well gently intermittently in your own pointless pinprick blues and nobody is near you, and nobody could be. It’s the kind of day that is made far more of spirit than body, a day for steeping in the past and wallowing in the present, heart strings tugging painfully toward the future. It’s the kind of day where everything that is or was or will be is quietly yet outstandingly beautiful; a stone on a mountaintop, an act of light from a dark life, every leaf on every tree that I can see for miles. All of existence seems saturated to its deepest tones, sunlight singing off it in living color. This is a day for a truck on a curving slash between two forests, for iced tea and goldenboy rock. I guess the river is calling already.

It’s that kind of day when the world of faraway is keening softly for you, faraway with more trees and grass than you could ever use up in an afternoon of sundays, and the city and its streets start to look like the set of Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.

It’s that kind of day where bigger is better, and less is more. I guess the river is calling.

faraway

I am

I have been thinking about changes.

Damn life is full of changes all the damn time, and it seems to run a pretty even seesaw. Some things slow down and stabilize and remain, and some things move like a stick figure flip book, a progression natural and fluid yet comprised of seventy billion sundry single incarnations.

What I’m saying is, I think the things that don’t change are the things that really matter. Like for instance, my attitude. My attitude throughout my life has pretty much always been, this is awesome or this will get better. During several super low points I have lost all hope, and that is basically the end of all beauty. The beauty of life is the truth of it, and the truth is that where there’s life there is always hope. So living in hopelessness means both living a lie, and living in ugliness. And this is what makes me thrum with contentment and throb with anticipation, in the swells of my days, at the glistening spearheaded wavepoint of my always onrushing future. The only real thing I ever need to worry about is losing a limb or some precious sense or other, or acquiring a shit attitude. No matter how bad it gets, it will always get better; and at the very least there will be breath in my lungs, soft like twilight, and blood in my fingertips, pulsing gently away like a campfire alone in a wilderness of stars.

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I am

April

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I am