I have a fear of finding someone laying, unconscious with bile on their face. I close my eyes and visualize this sometimes, hand trailing along the wall.
"Please don't let that be there."
The cats are acting like little retardeds. The only one that will stay in the basement is the one that is afraid of everything. She stays there because every time she comes upstairs I jump and scream. Her hiding place is in the basement. I have no idea how she became so fat unless Nick keeps a secret food bowl down there.
Stupid 109 degree Portland. Whenever anyone speaks favorably of this heat (always people who are not actually here) I imagine they are trying to kill my cats. I have similar affections for people who wish it would snow every winter. You are ruining it for everyone, Rachel.
Today Nour, Parker and I went to the garden I call My Mother's House. It's strange I have these impressions, dream lives I imagined for myself which haunt my adult days. I guess that's how writers are. I guess all this behavior is normal. I used to worry I would hurt the people I've lived my life with by explaining I was also living these other lives, but I think if I just try to be as up font about it as possible they'll learn to adapt.
This park is really called Peninsula Park, and while I was there several things happened which pleased me. First off, children were swimming in the fountain. Check. Second, large furry dogs were swimming in the fountain. Third, a girl in a beautiful summer dress was selling popsicles via bicycle cart. The air smelled like roses. The water was shallow enough to walk around the fountain in a dress. Parker Nour and I laid on the grass under what I think was a magnolia tree.
There is a beautiful fountain at the Detroit Zoo and it is almost always dry. I hate you, cheapskate Zoo Directors.
Here's my other favorite daughter, Belle Isle Fountain:
Living in Detroit is good for gaining an appreciation for a certain type of architecture. Yesterday I watched the first thirty minutes of a independent film which I turned off because (among other things) it looked like it had been filmed in a college bro-partment. Beige wall, beige walls. Sometimes I am so homesick I want to roll around and rub the Guardian Building all over my face.
Predominantly I dream of houses. Sometimes people are in the homes with me but the windows and rooms are what I really remember. Last night I dreamed of a mansion covered in plaster.
"I love it! I love it!" I shouted, clapping my hands. "I'll call it 'The Clay Pot'!" I am also fairly obsessed with having a show house, obviously. Sigh.