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Sunday Cat Blogging

Well, it seems that I can't not catblog. A bit compulsive, yes. Luckily, Shelley has  a lovely post about Zoë, that will do very nicely:

Oh, she looks dangerous, doesn't she? Read the post to find how just how dangerous. Other reading:

Friday Ark
Carnival of the Cats
Carnival of the Dogs
Rascal Fair

Also note: this will be the last post in Friday Cat Blogging 4; Friday Cat Blogging 5 will be initiated (most likely) next week.

Thank you all for your kind thoughts.

Funk

So here's the deal -- I really do have Blogger's Block. I've been tired for a long time. A really long time, almost a decade now. There are breaks, though; days, or weeks, when the fatigue recedes and I feel almost well. I haven't had one of those breaks -- not one lasting more than a day or so -- for over a year, and it's wearing me out. It's hard to feel creative, it's hard to feel optimistic.

Then I go through periods, as I have recently, of reading the news; watching the news; thinking and feeling about the news. I get heavier and heavier. My world gets darker -- even the dozens of baby sparrows in the garden do not lighten it. All those wings, and no lift.

So, I am grouchy and grumpy and edgy. I promised a friend to make an appointment to see my doctor, which I will do tomorrow. But that won't change the news, now, will it? I'm going to be like that squirrel for awhile -- my eyes are closed; I can't see you and you can't see me.

The Liberal Media

Reporters -- not commentators, reporters -- on the same network (MSNBC) on Monday (Hardball) referred to supporters of Cindy Sheehan as “anti-war extremists” and today (Countdown) referred to Pat Robertson as “no extremist cleric.“

I'd like to see what dictionary they are using.

Blogger Block

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lots

this is my lot
we each have our own lot

a lot is a sheaf of wheat
from our father’s field

a lot is a grain of wheat
from our mother’s hand

a lot is a stem of wheat
shaped like a key

a key to a room
a skeleton key

we each have our own room
sometimes a corner of my room

is a corner of your room
sometimes it isn’t

some rooms are small & dank
some are bright wheat fields

with broad horizons and locusts
sleeping in the soil

the wife of lot
looked back & now

seasons all our
solitary suppers