she has a teabox, that is to say, a box of tea. rough and hewn of cedar but full of attentions, tiny sliding slats compartments to be reworked to entrap the various bags of tea. she washes with salt water and slips the silk of her skirts over her shins then thighs. i made her up in my head when i saw a teabox today, and coveted it.

the cat and i have a language of face-cuddles and he chirps and grumbles rapturously while i rub my forehead all about his fur-upholstered nose and cheeks and chin. he has round golden owl eyes and together this autumn we lie under the duvet late into the night. reading by the light of beeswax pillars and votives about curare, encaustic and adolescents with guns.

this cat is dangerous to love. he will swipe at your face quick-as-you-please. i need my humans to be less like him. he can remain; he has that cat excuse. my four year old friend warns me, ghosts is everywhere.

in less than one month now i will be officially old, it rhymes with dirty. last year i'd venture to say was the very worst birthday ever, but i don't want to say it out loud and tempt the forces of nature, instead i'll just type it here and hope for better. or go back to not really caring about birthdays much. i haven't decided yet.

once again i'm searching for a new occupation. that's really the best word for it, isn't it. vocation is out of the question.