PickledCherub

My Tupperware arrived today. It's sitting on the green chair by the door, unopened, with fuschia letters that say "Welcome to . . . Tupperware Welcome to . . . Tupperware." The tadpoles jump out of the water every now and again. It's easy to forget that there's life in the casserole dish on the mantel. I slept and slept today, slept and slept, until Athena came crawling into bed, clawing me. She's not malicious but she must think I'm lazy. I wrote in my journal yesterday a few things. One: "My forgiveness organ is still intact, but it's not my largest organ. That's my skin." Two: "You never know how you're going to react." Momma Fuchs and I had a long talk about our philosophical outlooks on life. "I think that it's not what happens to you, but how you respond to what happens to you that matters. There's just no point in asking 'Why?' because there's no answer." We talked about death, about fathers dying, about mothering and being mothered.

I have a number of assignments for myself today. One of them is working on some beats for a hip-hop album. Although I'm starting to wonder if it might be better to write a number of songs in different genres about dishwashing. A Flamenco song about dishwashing could be kind of funny, and maybe Bluegrass and Country and R&B. I like the idea of stretching my chops a bit.

As I was driving through the neighborhood earlier the urge to own a home, to settle down, to decide some things arose in me. I hope it will pass. It might be a passing phase, like lesbianism. (That was a joke.)