Really? No comments? I tell you people I'm trapped in my house and there are NO COMMENTS?!?!
I think I've been home too long. I'm starting to talk to the cat. OK, I always talked to the cat, but he looks like he's starting to understand. Not that he cares. He's still a cat.
Help me people. really.
3 comments:
Wish I could help... I have definitely been there, though. Hard to keep sane. I watched every match in Wimbledon, including doubles. I caught up on e-mail (and video games). I ordered everything we could possibly need, on line, from neat Excel files I created. I wrote a lot of thank yous. And I tried to shower every day. I hope you're hanging in there and not going too batty yet.
A cat poem, to read to your cat and make him care, by Pablo Neruda.
Cat's Dream
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
oh Jeanne...
how are your boobies feeling?
Post a Comment