Today, I am both angered and saddened by the Universe. It seems clear that it has lost its handle on its own demographics. Not to fear: I still maintain some precious cachés of hope. I just cannot remember where at Marklewood I secreted them away for safe keeping. Or for a rainy day.
My wait has crept past the 120 day benchmark and made most memorable and a wee bit sublime by a gorgeous autumnal afternoon. I have held back, remained mum, and kept any sarcasm to a whisper. My patience, however, seems no longer justified or rational. I sat on the stoop for a few hours today listening to my iPod while I pondered my Kafka-esque life. I tried to scream or cry … just to vent emotion, any emotion. The best I could muster was a pout, at least my interpretation of one. Living here in the hinterlands (miles from neighbors and surrounded by ancient pines), though, has instilled some bizarre and foolish pioneer spirit. My voice simply can’t always utter what looms in my imagination or prods my spirit.
I best attempt another session of self actualization and proactive ponderances tomorrow.
Henry, meanwhile, is focusing on damage control while Pfluffer searches for mislaid hope. Of course, they are both convinced that the Universe is partial to a well-intended and kindly puss, and will always give him the “scoop”, inside or otherwise.