Jacque's Toast

The whiskered, furry purring cat ambled slowly along. She was very late for her meeting but had gotten water stuck in her ear, which is, of course, a most uncomfortable sensation. She paused midstep to give her head a little shake.

I sit here drinking from the jug. From the big carton of 2% milk, that expired yesterday. Still tastes creamy, and sweet. 1 gallon, 3.78 L. Soup is on the stove top. Beans, sauce, onions, garlic whole wheat pasta. Salt and pepper, to taste. My feet are cold, our house is 64 degrees, and I have a humidifier going in my room. The temperature outside is 23 degrees. My feet I would say are somewhere in the middle. I got hungry in the middle of cooking and made myself toast and eggs. He took a swig from the milk, jostling it in its opaque container. The milk is reduced fat. But he is thinking it will not reduce any fat. He weighs 250 pounds. Because of the eggs. Driving in the cold streets this night to the Sea and back. Children burned and brothers died. Makes for a soup night with whole wheat noodles. The heat just flared on, I can hear the muffled roar of the flame in the basement, coming up through the carpeted dining room floor. Carpets make for good flammable material. To the sea and...

I just finished reading a History of Love, by Nicole Krauss. It definitely jumbled me up in different places, as I tried to keep track of who was telling the story, who was really telling the story, and at what time period the person who was really telling the story, was telling the story. And you never find out what happens to Bird, which I think is a big drawback to the book, because so much time is spent creating his life and story and then I feel he gets left out of the resolution. Unless I missed something. I do feel like I have to go back and reread it anyways, now that I know who is supposed to be telling which story. But the whole book is made up of little and big tragedies and heartbreak. A bit of a sad book that is demonstrated in even the skimmed details of desk clerks and nonchalant art students. I wonder if this kind of book is appealing to a large audience. I suppose New York City provides a pretty large audience. Bona fide as they say. So maybe it is taking the easy way ...

 "Me not fussy - just give me box of cookies" -Cookie Monster

branches, sticks and twigs sneaking back staying silent- hiding in the curtains, becoming angry when the sun does not shine. Burst; color dazzling screaming, spilling everywhere leaking from the ceiling oh mama will cry oh mama don't cry I will sing you a lullaby of leaves, leaves that once glittered so.

My basement is flooded with inches of standing water, and drips come steadily from the ceiling, blobbing the fresh paint job and soaking into the new carpet, making my socks wet. But as the winds come swinging through the trees, scattering drops on my window, the drips of rain create a beautiful water color painting.

I left work around 7:15 PM. It was warm outside still, and I knew that more often than not in the coming days, weeks, months it would be cold outside when I left work. Gene wasn’t around and didn’t need a ride home, and I had yet to see downtown Rochester, walk the East Avenue I keep hearing about. I searched for some bookshops because I have read all my books. One caught my eye because someone named Aryeh C. left a review for it. North Star Books. Named for the abolitionist paper or something. I got to town and parked on Elm Street, across from the book shop. I didn’t even go to the door of it because I figured it was closed, and I decided to walk along East Ave. Passing different bars and food options, stopped for a slice of pizza. Took it to go and ate it while looking at the movie listings at Rochester’s Independent movie theater called the Little Theater. It was playing some mystery drama film, and Don’t Think Twice - which I had already seen with my mother. I thought about hangin...