busted sleep

Another night of severely busted sleep. Second night in a row.

After one in the morning, we got that rain that we were expecting over the weekend, and at the end of last week, one of the reasons why I rushed that mow.

Got the cats inside without much trouble. But Sammy won't stop crying for more than an hour at a time.

Of course, now that I am up, he goes off and sleeps like a baby.

If I were by myself, I'd throw him outside without food and water for a couple of days. See if that improves his disposition.

Casanova

“An ancient author tells us somewhere, with the tone of a pedagogue, if you have not done anything worthy of being recorded, at least write something worthy of being read.”

-- Casanova, The Memoirs

Casanova need not have worried about leading an interesting life. It would also seem that he has no need to chide himself for want of eloquence. I still have yet to break out of the preface, but his memoirs is looking like a veritable masterpiece. I am glad I caught onto it. Sylvia Plath is a special flower, but I need some high-testosterone in my mix, and Casanova certainly provides us with that.

half-hour nap

Stirring from my nap, a good half-hour nap, thank god, I am wondering what Coco and Ash are doing. Sammy is outside. When I rise, I see both cats beside the bed, just looking up at me, waiting patiently.

Why can't Sammy have a little of that in him? If Sammy were not fixed, I suspect we would be thinking about getting that done. But I suppose the male in him runs deeper than that.

1984 (2,7) Private Loyalties

Winston dwells on the consequences of living under a fully realized totalitarian government, which strips the individual of all personal associations, including those of family, when the state comes between even parents and children and takes absolute precedence, depriving people of all that makes them most human, leaving them hardly more than automatons to the state.

_ _ _

The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the enveloping protecting gesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be contained. His mind went back to another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother had sat on the dingy white-quilted bed, with the child clinging to her, so she had sat in the sunken ship, far underneath him, and drowning deeper every minute, but still looking up at him through the darkening water.

He told Julia the story of his mother's disappearance. Without opening her eyes she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable position.

'I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,' she said indistinctly. 'All children are swine.'

'Yes. But the real point of the story -'

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My hair

My hair is doing that Jesus thing again. And I don't think there will be any haircut until the end of May.