Last night I got a bottle of st germain and bourbon and got adequately drunk with my prize-of-a-human wife, Spout. We’re down here by the beach in New Jersey and the wind is all wild and weird, the grey tabby won’t shut up about being let outside. Her parents are worried though, to let the cat out. There was a hawk at the bird feeder.
This morning, I made coffee and sat at the table with blue freezing feet (’cause for hours and hours I don’t go get my socks out of the room where Spout sleeps, in fear of waking her up). I wrote a poem about the movie Beetlejuice and drew some doodles on a slip of notebook paper, then went upstairs into the 1980s-style-wallpapered guest room, where I laid flat on my lazy back reading Nabokov’s Pale Fire for hours. And that’s where I’m at now.
I just let the tabby outside. The hawk might be in the trees. Or it might have headed off. We’ll see.