Kitty-sittin'

Sarah and Abby are in Maine. I am kitty-sitting for Eli, their beautiful gray kittycat. Their house feels like a vacation home to me. I can actually write here.

My Wednesday of kittysitting has happened as follows:

Came in. Rubbed Eli's belly while he complained very loudly about his mommies being gone. He was kind of manic, so I didn't catch all of it--but he definitely referred to "those effin' bitches" a lot, rather than referring to S & A by their real names.

As it turns out, Eli has always had a desire to go to Maine. It is the only place he has ever wanted to travel, and they did not invite him, therefore he will not be inviting them on his Jamaican holiday in February. He hates the idea of Jamaica and is only going to make them jealous. He's going to take pictures of himself in lots of Rastafarian garb while doing lots of illegal drugs. He also plans on getting lots of bitches in Jamaica, and blowing coke directly off their asses. He says he likes big asses. Something about "Megaasses." I told him that phrase really doesn't work and he stormed off.

Searched bookshelves for poetry. Located "Erotic Poems" from the Everyman's library. Read some Ovid, some Catullus, some Levertov, and other things I used to read in college. I read "The Head of Hair" by Charles Baudelaire (this is not my favorite translation), got that tingly excited feeling I used to get when I read, that made me want to write. Instead, smoked one cigarette on the back porch. Admired the yellow chaise lawn chair, which looks like it was stolen from the city pool I used to frequent as a child. Admired S & A's matching bikes. Admired porch. Became very jealous of porch. Went in to stunt jealousy.

Began work on draft one of TOP SECRET PROJECT that cannot be mentioned here--a collaborative work between Sarah, Kathy, and I, which will make us famous. Wrote 5 pages. Was happy, then immediately depressed again. Smoked another cigarette on porch. Decided to incorporate "The Head of Hair" into my project, but really it's just an epigram or epigraph or whatever you call it, at the beginning, and has nothing to do with anything, like most epi-whatevers.

Had a conversation with Eli about Albert Camus. About how I feel like Albert Camus sometimes lately and do not enjoy it. Eli said he feels this way, too, and that he would rather feel like Beckett. I agreed.

Eli went to sleep on the table under the phonograph. I admired this. I desired a phonograph to sleep under.