CAT-tastrophe

I knew that one of my cats was lost/wandering, and now I can't find the other. I feel like this is a sign.

Hot. Sticky. Mess.

Sitting in the office. A fishing line drawn from the center of my pupil to the computer screen.
I. Can't. Look. Away.
Walking down the street. Gravity gluing my feet to my shoes to the earth.
I. Can't. Fly. Away.
But, as soon as I am home, I can.
Take. (It. All.) Off.

Mascara

This morning I:
got a flat tire on my bike
thus,
making me late to work,
thus,
forcing me to take the bus
which,
I forgot $2 for
so,
I had to return to my house
and
almost got hit by a car crossing the street.

When I finally made it to work (mostly on foot) I enjoyed a hot cup of coffee and everything seemed to be reversed. Now, after some watermelon for lunch, I am better than ever.

A massage tonight followed by ?

Yesterday I had this thought:
"Dogs are a good way to make friends, (so is mascara)."

Comcast FAIL

Been seeing a bunch of these around lately.

Yesterday, during some road construction, a truck ran into the large tree in front of my apartment. I have been mourning it like a friend. It gave us shade, filtered the Fell St. smog and felt like a silent protector of our small house. My neighbor took a short video and sent it to me while I was at work feeling helpless and sad.

There I was sitting in my office chair watching the tiny screen of my cell phone as the tree was taken apart limb by limb to be hauled away, somewhere. The damage to the tree wasn't that bad but a limb threatened a cable line so Comcast has now reduced it to a stump in the sidewalk.

A previous tenant had hung a piece of art near the highest limb, which could only be viewed from the upstairs. It had a jet flying over some innocent looking folks who were raising their arms to the sky. And now, I don't know where that is either.

It will be weird turning the corner for a few weeks. But I assume like most things/people I've lost, I will eventually forget how it looked, or the shape of the leaves. Or, how it provided for me and the space it has left there is due to be filled sooner or later.

Papi George

Baldcypress
(Taxodium distichum L.)

Large, needle-leaf, deciduous tree normally found growing in southern swamps. Called the "wood eternal" because of the heartwood's resistance to decay, Baldcypress is used for heavy construction including docks and bridges.

Here lies my grandfather.

No longer a Deerling, my Darling

I spend most of the day figuring out how to look busy, or how to look like I am doing something other than what I am really doing. What am I really doing? Visiting websites habitually, xing out, tabbing in, repeat. Sometimes I read the news, and if I do, I always read the comment section that follows. Sometimes I have my 2 cents, but I rarely, if ever, join in on the conversation. This is becoming a new (negative?) trend that spans across far more than just my online reading habits. I am infinitely interested, but not sure about interesting.

Yesterday, in my internet travels I re-read a journal of a strangers (livejournal.com/users/deerling). This is difficult to explain. How I used to check every day, often more than once. Did she write? Was she eloquent? Is she sad? Now I realize that I should have spent my time writing, rather than waiting, on baited breath for the twisted words of yet another young woman in the throws of love. Now, upon my revisit of her private life I can remember more about what was happening to her then, than to me. I did however leave a comment on her latest (last?) post and found a journal of mine. So I WAS writing! It is difficult to read the precisely poised words I managed to compose. WHO was I writing it for? Each word seems wrapped up tight and garnished with a bow. A pretty contrived present to someone, but who, I have no idea.

This time it's about me, me, me.

Definition

To engage with the basic facts or realities.