Orange Cat

I contemplate a dead orange cat.
And he contemplates me.
I am standing in the gutter in the street,
he is laying just inside the road.

I want to move him from danger,
this dead cat, for my own sake,
but all I can do is stand over him,
sobbing incoherently into the telephone.

I remember hearing once,
in catholic school,
something about a little bird dying
every time a boy wanks off.

And I would just picture my classmates
their braces shining holy
in the shaking computer light,
mouths turned upwards toward the heavens.
And then, just beyond the swing-set,
a tiny sparrow, knowingly,
careens toward the manicured lawn.

I wanted to think of the cat's parents
leaving niblets on the porch,
worried hands on hips, patting little heads.
I tried.

But all I could think,
standing there in the street,
is that every time you break an eager heart,
in a hurry,
on the internet,

An orange cat dies,
eyes open,
in a ditch,
in a suburb.

-Hannah Morris

Santorini, anyone?

Isn't dreaming about spur of the moment holidays the loveliest feeling? Today, I would head off to Santorini and bury myself in the sand with some lime-water. My list of places to visit grows each day; not a place in this world I don't want to see!

This gorgeous suit for a golden tan from Anthropologie, of course. I was told there'd be cake is supposed to be reminiscent of Miranda July's No one belongs here more than you and so I am sold. (Miranda July: Fantastically weird protagonist/writer of the film "Me you and everyone we know") Also, though I haven't tried any of the perfumes from Cb I hate perfume, I have spent many an office hour perusing creator Christopher Brosius's blog/website and I find him charmingly candid and chock full of whimsy. All of the descriptions of his potions are like poems in themselves. Check out his description of "Mr. Hulot's Holiday":
The salty breath of the breeze off the Mediterranean, driftwood, rocks covered with seaweed and the smell of old leather suitcases

I don't know about you, but that is exactly what I am looking for in life.

Santorini Photos via National Geographic

Summer

Something about summer; the piddlyness of it, makes you assess everything. Like a snaggletoothed red head with a magnifying glass. The walking around the house bare-skinned, drinking berry nectar out of the bottle, sitting on the porch to talk to the plants. The joyous pointlessness. The sweetly sick looming of a grown-up life and the realization too that any plans you made were lost in the flood and now unfold like spittled paper. I am not afraid of the future; I love it, I want to hold it and tickle its belly and guffaw at its ingenious jokes. I want the togetherness and the aloneness, the clashing of bodies like wooden spoons. I want that familiar ache of the loss of something real. Make the right moves and the wrong ones just as fast. Don't you think it's just marvelous; all this living?

photo: JFK Library