this little piggy
I had a dream this morning that I had a tiny pet piglet the size of the last joint on my thumb. She got along well with my rabbit, but then an enormous hog with hoary bristles (think one of the inoshishi from Mononoke Hime) wandered into the yard and I ran to collect her from the dead leaves she had been rooting under because I thought he might eat her. I had apparently also had her since the beginning of the summer but had forgotten her in an old dilapidated hutch for several months, which -- we speculated -- was why she was so tiny: she hadn't eaten anything in months and had therefore been unable to grow to normal-piglet size. I felt horribly guilty about this and made a point of feeding her lots of bits of veggie burger and spinach and fresh water.
There was something else about cancer victims and secrets and working in a drugstore, but I forget that part.
The piglet reminded me of Malcolm, the beloved pet mouse Kumar killed (accidentally? intentionally? it's still unclear) so many years ago. The scrotums of male mice are probably the softest, most delicate thing in the universe. They seem so vulnerable dragging around everywhere. Scrotums, in general, are strange and vulnerable things -- that was my waking thought this morning. And yes, maybe that is slightly creepy of me.
A huge package of henna stuff arrived this weekend, but I didn't see it until just now because I've been out of the apartment since I left to find The Venerable at 1:00pm on Friday. The box smells strongly and nostalgically of clove bud (not throbbing, in this case) and geranium and eucalyptus. Must. Resist. Impulse. To. Henna. Must. Write. Ethnography.
There was something else about cancer victims and secrets and working in a drugstore, but I forget that part.
The piglet reminded me of Malcolm, the beloved pet mouse Kumar killed (accidentally? intentionally? it's still unclear) so many years ago. The scrotums of male mice are probably the softest, most delicate thing in the universe. They seem so vulnerable dragging around everywhere. Scrotums, in general, are strange and vulnerable things -- that was my waking thought this morning. And yes, maybe that is slightly creepy of me.
A huge package of henna stuff arrived this weekend, but I didn't see it until just now because I've been out of the apartment since I left to find The Venerable at 1:00pm on Friday. The box smells strongly and nostalgically of clove bud (not throbbing, in this case) and geranium and eucalyptus. Must. Resist. Impulse. To. Henna. Must. Write. Ethnography.