i belong in the service of the queen
{We're continuing with the painters theme, apparently; last I heard, he's been made the Monet to our Picasso. Rocio's doing, of course. I would have preferred Bucephalus, or Renoir, at any rate.}
"Come here, Pierre-Auguste."
He's really quite friendly and adorable - hardly a Monet, who I've always imagined as being vaguely curmudgeonly, or atleast too obsessed with capturing the light to possibly enjoy purring against the back of a chair. I'd opt for Cassatt, but we've determined that the kitten is very much male, so that strikes her; he's not near mad enough to be a Duchamp. So Renoir. Maybe I can get away with just staunchly calling him so. I've been calling the other cat the classic, simple "Gato" for atleast 5 years, and apparently he's been named "Cortadito" for just as long. Shrug. Half the fun in adding living things to one's life is the process of naming them; it has always been the highlight of acquiring a pet in my house (and often the subject of fierce debate, as was the controversial naming of Belcha many, many years ago). I imagine that some people must have children for similarly trivial reasons.
{It certainly is an attractive drawing point, I have to say. "Do you think Bonaparte is a bit much? Maybe as a middle name, perhaps?"}
грушенька:
The last month has had a distinct, warm air of primavera, but two days ago I woke up to find snow outside and I stayed home cutting out little paper elephants and hanging them on a red string across my window. That is what I do now, I cut out paper elephants and listen to music, how strange.
I have been sleepless a lot. It is becoming common now for me to lie awake at three o'clock in the morning reading or spinning Abbey Road and staring up toward the ceiling, where all of the things I wanted to say (but never could) hang in the air like paper elephants.
Right, so, that's from Chagall-loving lenin_grad (Lenka? - I've just realized that I'm not sure we ever found the need to do formal introductions, with minutea like first names, which are always nice to avoid for a see or two, I've found.) At any rate, Lenka is of Russian background and makes this amazing drawings that look directly from the 1960's/70's and, at more of that any rate, I'm quite the fan, especially of this latest bit of writing, which I thought quite brilliant, particularly the last line, which made my day, and so I posted it just as soon as permission to do so was granted. It sounds like something that would be tucked neatly into a story on This American Life, or a poem by Billy Collins, or a remarkably good modern novel. But more than anything, in current immediate retrospect, like a Billy Collins poem. Yes. I'm quite inspired not only to cut out paper elephants, and strew lines across the ceiling of my tiny room, but actually make an effort to use the phrase "all of the things I wanted to say (but never could) hang int he air like paper elephants," just as soon as the upcoming exam is defeated and I have a bit more time to devote to the finer things in life, like most excellent similie and a really beautiful mental picture of light being flitered through multicolored [my own assumption] paper elephants.
I had a "FOC-KING headache" [said, clearly, in angry Cockney, Oy?] earlier, but a nap has remedied much; recharged, I am better suited for taking on a whole lot of stuff (I'm not specifying because I'd like to think that I'll do more than Chomsky before the night is over, seeing as I quite efficiently did not finish him last night.)
And John's been saying some really amusing things lately, but there's really no time to publish now; morrow, perhaps.
(Oh my. Did I really just wake up from a dream about buying a green/orange/yellow backpack, which had colours which could be made darker and lighter at will? How very, very strange.)