I am sitting in my sleeping costume, looking out the old windows that face north drinking coffee, as I so often do, from the cup where the handle is the cat’s tail (if you can believe such a thing). Huntingdon is an early riser but still as far as I can see it’s just me and Olive and every other morning dweller behind their old windows, stirring and preparing, another day. A few cars pass on the orange-lit street below me; above me the sky is all stars and blackness.
My commute winds me north and east, and on these mornings I watch the sun come around again, slow and sleepy before rioting through fields, over ridges and behind bare branches.
I am directionally oriented– other places it has been more palpable than here. In Brooklyn I would wake each day aware of the map of that great teeming place that had been drawn in my mind through the various pockets of experience and bicycle rides that connected all the streets. I knew always where I was facing, and where my loved ones fit into the windows of that labyrinth.
In Nebraska, where one is aware very much of the sky, where I lived within the sun’s arc and slept when it was dark, woke when it was light, where the gravel roads are drawn in a firm grid I saw east, faced home.
I find myself seeing through the eyes of others lately, the dear ones nestled in points east and farther east and west and south and north and so forth. My compass is spinning again.
All aboard the kitty train! via Flavorwire.
These, offered up from Roy’s infamous trip to the zoo of early 2013.
Gives new meaning to Cat House. via Daily Mail.