An odd month, March. Sixty degrees, no snow, snow, mini-blizzard, snow, no snow, sixty degrees. Crocuses up in the yard, feathered things tweeting in the trees. Neighbors were out with rakes today, more indicative than robins. Spring is here.
I'm reading No Country For Old Men at the insistence of certain rabid fans with whom I am acquainted. Can't watch the movie with its visual violence, and even the book is nudging my imagination down dark avenues. As I read I think I hear stealthy footsteps, or doors creaking open somewhere. Harry growls and I raise eyebrows, expecting Chigurh to appear. The author's prose is odd. Staccato. Abrupt sentences. Minimal punctuation. Cant. Doesnt. Dont. Unnerving to read, which I suppose was the goal.
The cat peed on my throw rug, the one I carried home in my suitcase all the way from Greece, tempting me to remove a feline head with the hatchet that leans against my firebox. Instead I stuffed the rug into the still-fabulous washing machine and dialed "Sanitize." The cat senses my displeasure and has been skulking all day. She is wise to avoid me.
A friend informed me mosquitoes hibernate in cellars over the winter. I know not if this is true but the image has triggered fear and loathing of a place I already consider troubling. The mosquito is my arch-enemy. Last night I lay in a silent bedroom and imagined I heard them beneath me, waking, gathering, their high pitch skree sub rosa conversation about the food source above. Maybe I'll send the cat down.
It's possible the high-pitched skree of Republicans is driving me mad.