I awoke to find a tiny ant struggling amid my eyelashes.

I'm in a hole tonight, as planned. Planned holes are pleasant. You clamber down into the dark, wave at the world in the last dreg of light, then let go and disappear into a soft bed of hay. Everything you need is right across the way: a kitchen, some good music, a soft armchair next to a few choice books. The cat is already napping in her ( Read more... )

The cicadas are buzzing.

This is a long and disorderly report on Mr. Butch's funeral ( Read more... )

Our house is overrun with tiny ants.

They are on the kitchen table.

They are pouring out of a crack in the kitchen windowsill.

When I turn on the faucet, they fall out of the fixture.

They are on my bedroom floor, very interested in the front right leg of my dresser.

Sometimes they are on my cat.

Halp.

Mr. Butch is dead.Mr. Butch was an integral part of my first year in Boston. I worked at Planet Records in Kenmore Square. We had a coffee can which was his "bank" on the counter. We held his Sunday's beer in the fridge on Saturdays, so he could pick it up on the Lord's day in spite of the blue laws. We could loan him money, up to five dollars ( Read more... )

Today, I turn 33 ( Read more... )

At Harvard Station, I bought a smoothie from the smoothie cart man. "Today's special, avocado with mango and papaya," he said. "Very creamy, like ice cream. You like, ice cream you will like this ( Read more... )

So, I'm just chillin' out with a little Doctor Who at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop while I write.

As cheesy as this shit is, it's also somehow waaaay creepy.