The Cats

Ash is dozing in the converted trash-bin. If any cat elects that little den, it is generally Sammy. It is always cute to see a cat in there. It even has a rug inside for a touch of homey comfort.

It’s funny. That bin was originally meant to be an emergency haven in the event of rain, when no one is there to let them inside the house, but the cats do not use it for that. If it is a bad storm, they will even scatter elsewhere for shelter. I guess the bin is not substantial enough for them, though it should serve well, particularly as it is under the patio roof. The patio roof is not foolproof against the rain, but it blocks out the worst of the storm, and the bin should be as cozy and comfortable as you can wish, lacking only stereo equipment to play easygoing music.

Lawn Work

A couple of neighbors are doing lawn work. It's an overcast, gloriously cool morning for it, especially as we are into the latter half of May. I do need to start looking for an opportunity myself, particularly with respect to the cats, getting them inside the house. However, I am happy to wait a couple of days and let the grass grow a little more.

The Natural World

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Orwell

When it comes to the unofficial culture war between modernist writers of the early mid-twentieth century and the new cinema age, this passage from George Orwell captures well the animosity toward the new, easier pleasure along perhaps with the sense of hopelessness against overcoming it.

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The pubs were open, oozing sour whiffs of beer. People were trickling by ones and twos into the picture-houses. Gordon halted outside a great garish picture-house, under the weary eye of the commissionaire, to examine the photographs, Greta Garbo in The Painted Veil. He yearned to go inside, not for Greta’s sake, but just for the warmth and the softness of the velvet seat. He hated the pictures, of course, seldom went there even when he could afford it. Why encourage the art that is destined to replace literature? But still there is a kind of soggy attraction about it. To sit on the padded seat in the warm smoke-scented darkness, letting the flickering drivel on the screen gradually overwhelm you - feeling the waves of its stillness lap you round till you seem to drown, intoxicated, in a viscous sea - after all, it’s the kind of drug we need.

-- George Orwell, “Keep the Aspidistra Flying”

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[Source: Laura Frost, “The Problem with Pleasure: Modernism and Its Discontents”]