a day in a life in the post-Ottoman Empire...

Spending the day pleasantly drifting between tasks: da kine, cooking, knitting, chatting, absorbing news, reading The Master and Margarita, playing with the kitts, bringing out the spring wardrobe... Sexy, passionate, rainy days are the best.

There is nothing like a brilliantly lit rainy day. The sound intoxicates. It washes over me, exploding into soothing white noise. The sweet cacophony irons out all the 'blemishes' I've developed from the week. You know, those little things that you lodge in you that really serve no purpose, except to frustrate. Just the normal shit that normal people hang on to far longer than necessary. Yea, that shit just dissipates from the falling rain; the more, the louder, the harder- all the better to just drive that shit from my being. Left with only bliss to contemplate, I am whole again. I am cured, absolved even.

Mind wandering, I find myself tidying up, or burning some sage and cedar, harvested by my hands while journeying through North America by car two summers ago. That smell. That olfactory delight. I am transported to eastern Oregon. Not to a spot completely random. Curt had been seeking out old landing strips so punched in some coordinates and there we ended up. With him wandering around looking for clues, I saw what I wanted, needed. Memories as the smoke envelops the apartment, hanging around long enough for me to sense back in time to those moments of pleasure in knowing the moments of pleasure to experience in the future, back in Istanbul, would be equally fulfilling. The science of awareness is fascinating, as is the awareness of science.

I am watching one of my felines attack my ball of (pussy-pink) yarn. Not a vicious attack, as Sami Bey is prone to. But with a perceived attack of the heart. He is kneading the yarn. He seems to be remembering the sensation of feeding when a kitten. This I find incredible though as he was only with his mother a day, or few at most, before he and his brothers/sisters were rejected by ma. Starr became surrogate mother- complete with warming up milk bought from the funky pet shop out on Budaiya Highway, back in Bahrain. I remember vividly watching her with the 4 kittens making sure they fed and pooped/peed, etc. I was fascinated. So fragile, and fortunate to be alive. Sami Bey- what a life!

So, does he remember feeding for those few hours with ma? Did he do it because of countless hours of observation of his refugee sister, Shaika Spot, when she gets into one of 'those' moods where she lays down next to me and tries to mimic something endearing from her youth that she somehow tries to cling onto? She, I assume, got to spend more time with her mother- maybe close to a month before she, out of desperation and exhaustion stalked Starr at her parking stall spot at the university and made her way into her life, and then my life.

Animals. Pets. Family. One quirky family that I adore. So yea, this is how my day is going.

Time to focus on some new podcasts. Loving 'Lore', and 'Myths and Legends' right now. Fantastical places to travel back to.