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Thursday, November 11, 2004 |
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Apple, the apparently half-Chihuahua-half-Border-collie (it's anybody's guess, but it's not an attractive combination), whose lower teeth live outside her mouth and whose eyes live half-outside their sockets, is a face dog. She can't keep away from faces; she must lick others' mouths, it seems, or die. This has proven somewhat of a problem where the cats are concerned. They do not enjoy these interspecies kisses one bit. Apple has taken a particular fancy to Ted, perhaps because they are nearly the same size; in response to Ted's mmmrrmphs! of protest I've had often to intervene to save him from Apple's licky tongue. And yet how we adapt. As I sit here at my bedroom desk, I hear Ted's loud purr, and look up to see him and Apple licking each others' faces, in some kind of mutual oral ecstasy. And after some time of this, Ted embeds a sudden claw in Apple's neck, pauses long enough to get her full attention, and then whammo there it is, the rapid face-bite of patience exhausted, and Apple yelps and pulls back looking hurt and bewildered, and Ted relaxes back into his nap, still purring, louder than ever. *** Recommended reading: Please everyone check out small ponderings today and from now on. Its minimalist design offers a nice crunch of contrast to its content, which, in amongst the bits of philosophy, can be so richly descriptive it moves me to tears. Here's a sample from today: ...the loom house tends to muffled tones, a quiet and peaceful place except for the slow rhythmic clack of a loom being worked. the smell up there is organic; think wool and cotton and wood. there is shared good humor, and a quiet confidence among the weavers. ... the loom house faces south and west, and there is a long wall of huge old windows that overlooks the llama pasture and 3 ridges in the distance. on clear days the room is flooded with sun; on stormy, snowy, cloudy or foggy days, the view out is like looking into a soft unknown void. it can at times feel like you're sitting on top of the world. the walls and floors are old worn wood and stone. the floors creak pleasingly when you walk across them. it is impossible even for the ghosts to sneak up on someone weaving late into the night.... The page has been up only a week or so, but it's becoming compulsive reading for me. I hope you'll contribute some of your attention to small ponderings as it evolves. The experience is so worth it. *** Don't know whether I'll be able to offer a cat photo tomorrow. Still working at securing access to my 50MBs. I feel like I'm smothering in a closet here at Salon. Don't make me go! I like it here! Just enlarge the closet a little! While I continue work on my own project, read this from Marvin Bell's Probable Volume of Dreams: THE WAR PIECE I The dove has entered the hawk-farm, the dove has entered the crows' nest. He has flown on into the eagle-cage, he has fallen in with the vultures. The drone and the cuckoo have welcomed the gull and the goose who have welcomed II the buzzard and locust and swallow. The dove has landed in the fowl-coop. The grasshopper can witness nothing, and the owl and the catbird, nothing. The rooster's voice is buried in light and the moth, dying, buries the light. III The warblers have given up flying. And the sparrows have given up flying. Left, the pigeons are flying, looking like lost doves. Their pigeon necks are next-to-last under the bird-like, the black, widow cloud. 12:32:43 PM  comment []
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