thursday cat log. it comes down to this: a cat barfed. a millimeter from r.'s 'puter, and also on my japanese notebook. now that i've performed nature's miracle everything seems calm, light and sultry again. yet jasper is under the bookcase, having gotten spooked by my grumbling and hasty footsteps. penny, who, i suspect is the errant barfer, is calmly poised on the window sill, hunting spiders. i know a cat who eats centipedes, wickett, and i know they are some nasty critters, and i wonder if swallowing jumping spiders would cause a cat to barf. i am groggy from the heat all of a sudden, at 7.31 a.m. i'm half way through the changeling, it's so strange, (funny how we go to books for some kind of coherence), half way through r.'s absence, half way through my cat idyll. there are transitions, but almost imperceptible, suddenly they are upon us, in chicago they come off the lake at warp speed, or out of criminal board rooms, they were coming all along, and we are shocked and unprepared. we, the unprepared, are never prepared. somehow lies always work on us, and disillusionment fades. we must get on with it, but the criminals clearly run the show. we must clean the box, wipe the barf, feed the cats, walk the dog, read the book, and make our own transitions, for the ones that hit us don't seem natural.

p.s.  i don't want to leave the impression that all transitions are violent, or ensue from lies or criminal business or politics, though painfully often they are. some weather is inevitable, and illness, and barf, but we can roll with those i believe. in my case it's the criminal politics, the criminal lies, and the weather of crime i can't abide. but we have no choice, we live in a criminal system, and the transitions are still ours.