The Blue Raccoon

Thursday, January 19, 2006



Staring Pensive Toward The Lip Of The Abyss

Greetings, from moderate to cool Richmond on a Thursday evening. WRIR 97.3--turning a whole year old -- is bouncing some odd reggae-beat something in the home office, giving me some sliver of hope.

The scowling lady above is one of my favorite images of one of my favorite members of the thespian class and human being in general, Mary Louise Brooks. She was a habitual reader, essayist and letter-writer and I wonder, afforded this 21st century opportunity, if she'd find blogs and connecting to other blogs and overhelming and useless preoccupation, or a delight. I'm of course projecting. If you don't know anything about Louise, you must go to pandorasbox.com right now.

What are you still doing here?

Anyway, as I know all of Christendom or at least those select and attenuated portions of it who've chosen to inflict themselves with this blogorrhea are concerned about my cats --

-- Well let me back up. At the Blue Raccoon tonight Carlisle Montgomery--this young-ish woman, who by way of background, hasn't owned a television in 15 years, doesn't use a computer at home--which may be a wigwam (OK, I'm kidding about that)--yet somehow justifies a cell phone (it's a generational thing), but if she can't get there by foot, bus, train or kayak she doesn't see much point--asked me in a smirking serious way about my "pussy problem." She pronounced the plosive "p", with a lip purse and slight exhale that gave the phrase what, I'm sure, was an unintentional prurient effect.

Someone talked to her about my situation with Flannery and Miro´as I'd not said anything about their hotly contested sleeping arrangements beyond this current narrative. I assured Carlisle that for the past two nights I had managed, by following instructions sent by Amie, to arrange pillows and by bringing in one ahead of the other, to make a peacable kingdom of the bed.

Flannery tucks herself half in and out of the duve and konks out and purrs like a motor all night. Miro´--named for the only Surrealist a cat is able to pronounce--commits her widdershins between my covered knees and with a few grumbles curls into a fur ball and is still. And that's how man and beast get through the winter nights here in Richmond.





2 Comments:

At 10:19 AM, Blogger Botschaft said...

Greetings! I can always give you my recipe for kitty spaghetti if they continue to get on your nerves.

 
At 1:32 PM, Anonymous louvre said...

Glad to hear that man and beast are resting though the night now.

 

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