Yup. After ten or so days of not seeing the cat, I took up her bowls, washed them, and put them away. So guess what? That's right. At four o'clock, she had her nose against the bottom pane of the kitchen door. There she was, as imperious as ever, looking none the worse for wear.
Did I tell you about the "ghost squirrel"? I don't think I have. So. . . I was sitting out smoking a cheroot and drinking a Campari and thinking about the missing cat a couple days ago when a "ghost squirrel" appeared out of nowhere. It had white skin and no hair but for a big tuft of dark fur between its shoulder blades and a few straggly hairs on its otherwise bare tail. It wasn't moving right, but it was looking me dead square in the eyes. A chill ran up my back and neck. I couldn't figure out what it was for a second. It hobbled off a foot or so then turned back to look at me. And at that moment, I realized there was not another squirrel around, nor had there been for days. I looked to the trees, the power lines, across the street one way to my neighbor's lawn, then across the second street to my other neighbor's lawn. It was the squirrel hour, but there was not a squirrel in sight. Just then the ghost squirrel began to move--awkwardly, and hobbled around the corner of the house.
"Do squirrels get rabies?" I wondered. Then I thought maybe someone had put out some kind of poison. But there were no squirrels then and there are no squirrels now. I've been looking for days and haven't seen a one. They should be out right now, but nothing. I live in a neighborhood full of squirrels in the norm, so I wonder if there could be some kind of disease that has taken them all. I need to find out. I know the feral cat couldn't have eaten them all.
We've made a very toxic planet, so who knows. I'm convinced that we are living through End Times.
Well. . . I had a lot of fun.
But not a lot of money. I'm friends with some money boys, but not that kind of friend. I'm good for drinking at the pubs but not at the country club. I'm not the proper kind of people, I think. Or they think. And I'm glad I didn't meet up with them on Friday night. Those money boys like to get drunk and do stupid things. I don't get drunk and do fairly smart and meaningful things. O.K. Sure I watch clips of women being interviewed on t.v. shows, and I have been known to watch a reality t.v. series or two, but that is just to keep my head in the game if you know what I mean. I can't just hang with genius nerds all the time.
So while I was boning up on the decade (or two) that I missed, the boys were out drinking until they puked and ended up at a nude dancing establishment. It is the famous one in town, and they are friendly with the owner, so. . . . I don't like such places. . . because I am not allowed to take my camera. Ho! No, indeed. . . well, I would like to take my camera, but I don't like lying, and those place are A House of Lies! That's what they should be called. I would photograph the lie, of course, but I don't want to live it.
The reports started coming in yesterday afternoon. They thought the drinking, arguing, puking, and all was a really good time.
"Jimmy said he didn't remember anything after the sports bar! I made sure he got home alright."
It was Jimmy's birthday.
As a result, nobody was going to Oktoberfest on Saturday which turned out to be fine with me. Well. . . one fellow gymroid was going, and I got a text from another late who wanted to know if I was going, but I was already of a homeboy mindset and declined the offers of beer and fun. I stayed home alone on a Saturday night instead as is often my fated state. I had "important" things to do. I'm an artist, goddamn it. I'm not like the others!
Now I must prepare myself for the coming storm. Milton. They are predicting that it will come right over my house and bring tremendous devastation. It is raining now and will continue to rain, they say, for the next five days. My PTSD is emerging. I don't think I can take another hit. But, you know. . . I think I am beginning to see what goes on in the mind of believers. I mean, I can't do anything about what happens next. Some call it "fate." Fate, I guess, is just what happens next. As a lapsed Existentialist, I still believe that I can decide how to react to what happens. . . but I am even believing in that less and less. If I listen to science, I am programed to react in certain ways. So yea. . . I can only wait and see what the great unknown has in store. And then we'll see how I'm programmed.
I think my program is getting messed up, though. It seems at times faulty to me now.
Wait. . . what? You come here for the photographs? O.K. O,K. I have a few.
This was for a series I was doing on formal dresses. This was her mother's wedding dress. She thought to sex it up a little. I think that was her idea.
A few days ago, I had in mind that this was going to be a post about traveling to NYC. I downloaded "Sunday in New York" to put with it. But it is cloudy and gloomy here now, and it doesn't fit my mood. Feral cats, ghost squirrels, stripper bars, and hurricanes. I'll bet there are wild animals living under my house again, too.
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