So, there I was, at gaming, when suddenly a friend showed up with kittens in tow.

Kittens. Two black and white kittens, one of whom was spoken for, the other of which needed a home.

Hello, I have "sucker for cuteness" written on my forehead. Of course I took the homeless kitten home.

Her name is Cricket.



She was the smallest kitten in her litter, and she will probably always be petite. She squeaks when she meows. She is perfectly healthy and unbearably cute.

She has demonstrated knowledge of litterboxes, scratching posts, and water and food dishes. She has not, however, learned her name yet.

The other two cats are wary and suspicious. Juniper's adjusting; I catch them sniffing noses every so often, and I can tell that he wants to be friends with Cricket but doesn't quite know how to go about it. Cricket has this habit of running up to him when he's eating and burying her nose in his fur, which startles him and pisses him off.

Lilith, on the other hand, hates change. Hates change with a vast and burning passion. Therefore, she also hates the kitten.

She has ceased growling whenever the kitten is in the room and only growls and spits when Cricket comes within about five feet of her. it's an improvement.

More pictures of the cuteness:

On the couch
On the couch, with Juniper
In my hair (I promise there is a kitten in there!)
In my hair, at a better angle
Snuggling with me
Kitten smooches!
Lilith and Cricket, in standoff.

So, the other day, I emailed Chris, and told him that if he wanted to talk...I was here.

He called me later that night.

We're talking again, and it is tenatively good. I'm still unsure of this, unsure of myself. There has been damage done between us, and I am reluctant to take anything for granted.

Add into that my groping blindly for a self-definition that both reflects who I am and that I can be comfortable with, and you may begin to understand my hesitance.

We got together in person last night, and it was pretty good. We talked about some silly stuff and some serious stuff, and for probably the first time in two years we're actually on the same page as it regards what we want our relationship to be. Redefining these boundaries between us hasn't been easy, and it's not going to get that much easier; but at least this time we both agree that we want to be friends and nothing more, not even friends with benefits.

We've been lovers on and off for the past two years and change, though we certianly weren't dating most of that time. I like this new place with him; there aren't so many unspoken expectations here, and we're clearer on some stuff that's bugged both of us.

I wasn't happy when I was with him. He and I are ill-suited in some very fundamental ways even aside from the fact that dating guys in general makes me nuts. But I think, that as friends, we get along swimmingly. I felt startlingly comfortable with him last night, and I even got some snuggling in, which was good as I've been affection-starved, even with kittens to keep me occupied.

We're probably going to have some bumps along the way; he is the only person in my life I feel at all posessive of, something that startles me and makes me angry with myself because I can't seem to let go of it.

We're going to Ballard together the weekend after this one.

Things seem to be coming together, some. I'm writing again on a regular basis, and I'm going to be starting to put my chapbook together soon. (There will be more details later, but the first print run is going to be limited: I'll be making 50 books total, hand-sewing them together, and there are people who will be getting copies as gifts and I'll sell the rest.) And it looks like there may be art of various kinds in my future.

And the quiet season is officially here. I love this time of year, before the novelty of grey and cold and wet has yet to wear off.

(Ask me how much I love it in February and i'll be singing a different tune. But right now, I love it.)

I've been reading Marge Piercy's memoirs, Sleeping with Cats.

I was born about twenty-five years too late, I think.

She was involved in the radical movement in the 60's, where your work and your love was intertwined and the personal was genuinely political and there were possibilities for change all over the place. I read about the things she did and I feel a deep kinship with that sort of passion. It all blew up for her, eventually, but there were years in there where things were mostly in balance.

Who's to say what I'd done if I'd been born in time for the 60's?

because I was not expecting to miss you

I am pealing, hollow like a bell,
away in the steeple over the hill,
far-off and faint. A sound that lingers
pooling as mist does in the rucked-up earth
left by glaciers, slow like granite,
struck dumb by a hammer, a rope.

struck dumb, by rope, by hillock,
scraped and stretched and left to dry,
marvelous golden tone wasted by distance
and by the inescapable speed,
limited always by physics.

Limited by physics, in the steeple
I am swinging, swinging, swung.
I am empty as water, I kneel
below the campanille, praying:
let this pass, let this pass over
and let me feel no more.

And hollow as a bell,
I peal.

Let there be an end to sorrow.

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