it’s like chinese poetry

I just want to write something now. It’s late Saturday afternoon, 5:05, and my whole life late Saturday afternoons have been my favorite time of the week. My whole life. And it has not rained today, and nearly all this day has been blue sky-y, dramatic white and gray-white clouds passing at their own pace. Which is exactly the way I’ve ambled through this day. I was just out behind my landlady’s house – Laura, 59 – and she was gardening in her lovely and rather unique garden and I had just come back from a sunny stroll down and back up Division Street, which is close by to the attic, and during which I said out loud to no one other than me – “I’m ambling.” And Laura’s two cats – Leroy and Ramona – were out in the day with her, for hours, and Leroy in particular rubbed my legs and smushed his nose and cheek against anything offering pleasant resistance, and by now any regular subscriber knows I’m in love with cats probably 73 years, so to be February fetched by Laura’s Saturday email in response to my post in search of new digs and find myself in an attic in a house with cats and a landlady who isn’t crazy about my getting up so early and drinking coffee and subsequent bathroom trips, above and next to her room, and who also says she feels like we found each other and she is glad I am here, and, um…….pretty great.

Now, writing this, it has been nearly exactly four days I’ve been back in Portland, and I keep finding myself stupefied by the all of it. And I’ve got to get Oregon plates and I need to switch my Medicare and probably car insurance, and while I bought two 4 x 4 colorful rugs from a woman at Morrison and 11th today to perk up these lovely brown floors, I am totally in need of a dresser and a bookcase and a most serious wicked comfortable chair.

And even days before the clocks all jump forward in about seven hours, I changed my alarm from 2:59 to 3:59, and still woke up at three Friday but slept all the way ’til four this morning.

And It’s just four days as I type.