86927 is the current word count. What it will look like after editing – generally things get shorter – is anyone’s guess.
Went to see Otto – my friend, not my mandolin – for coffee yesterday. He has hopes, having lost the lease on his ceramics studio, to getting another one in Port Coquitlam and I really hope so because it’s only two minutes from a kiln and he’d have 24-7 access to it. He gave me a lift home. It was very wet yesterday and I walked down to Coming Home Café and got wet from my crotch to the ground; the rain was coming in sideways under the umbrella. Fortunately with my current temperature control issues I merely felt pleasantly cool.
Working in clay, boy howdy. If I feel like getting up in the middle of the night to write (at my grandfather’s desk – you will all be happy to know that I am no longer writing or internetting in bed, guh — but I am allowing myself to read in bed) it’s easy to do. I stumble across the room, fire up my brand new ceramic heater because by gadfrey it’s chilly in here and then I write, or pretend to. Right now rather than pretending to I’m going to get up and get the coffee I forgot to bring upstairs when I went downstairs to practice.
ZEEEE! but first a few words about our sponsors, the cats. (Sorry, I’ll hack my feet off and eat them before I insert sound effects in my blog, so the ZEEEE! was an attempt to jam in some old-fashioned imaginary radio magic. Okay, it didn’t work but goddamnit I tried.)
MAN the cats love the new regime of warm and cold wet cat food in a seemingly endless supply. They are used to one can every two months and the rest of the time they are on kibble; and solid snax. Buster now does the leap in the air and clap his paws together almost every time I give him the snackies, except about once in ten he’ll roll on the carpet and with one slitted eye commanding my compliance direct me to just drop it now, there’s a good chap. This is usually when I try to snack him up midday, when he’s normally up a cat tree and out cold.
He is so cute when he sleeps on the couch downstairs. Sometimes nobody but Jeff will do, and Jeff obligingly holds himself so as accommodate whatever bizarre assemblage of furry cubist limbs Buster’s arranged himself into this time. Other times he Wants Mama’s Skritches and I become increasingly deranged in my attempts to scratch his chin while Jeff looks on with alarm. He extends all his limbs like Nijinsky, flops around with so little regard for feline dignity that it seems clear his early socialization was with very good tempered dogs, and cares not for what you squeeze or touch, almost as if he’s in some kind of neurological state of pleasant inebriation.
Margot is shedding like crazy. I had noticed that stressed cats do this, but this is like the February snow storm of cat fur came early, and I am disgust.
FML, back to work. Or not. WHo is it tHat mesSAges me? I hear the ting ting that I’ve gotten a message. Forget message get coffee. ARGHH TOO MANY DECISIONS.