In no particular order, or odor:
These are the Days of Awe. The world is awash in guilt and redemption and I stand at the short precipice of feeling in love and hate with it all.
My friend, MG, once said that “we treat our bodies like machines” and he’s right. We push chemicals into our temples and expect positive results, including greater efficiency and better productivity. Most of the time, we’re right to do this. The organic and inorganic substances we inhale, digest, inject and observe are goody bags in the cavern of a worldly Halloween.
There seems to be a trend, on television lately, away from reality programming toward comedy and dark adventure. The reasons are probably many: real boredom, aspiration, better kinds of hope taking the form of mass entertainment that, in turn, substitute in for real politic.
I’m in the process of rebranding my company. This means that I’m assigning a new visual identity to way I feel about representing my professional life. It’s a bit like taking your old clothes to the Salvation Army, kissing them goodbye, and shopping in the eternity of a store called Maybe. It would be nice if they sold coffee there. But they don’t.
My two cats, Gusty and Inky, are getting older. I can see it in the way their fur sits on their bodies. For both of them, the tufts of hair separate just a little bit from the corpus of hair upon them. It’s like me.
When I was about ten years old, my grandfather, a physician, bought for me a copy of Gray’s Anatomy. I devoured that tome, learning, by the time I was in high school, the name of every single muscle, bone and ligament in the body. I took apart a plasticine cat in AP Biology with a partner. First, we took off the skin, which was the hardest part. Then we teased apart all of the musculature. I loved the little heart. We kept the cat in a bag. I’ll never forget the smell of formaldehyde and skin.
The television show, Grey’s Anatomy, just featured a song that sounded a lot like one by My Bloody Valentine.