Anyway, it's the year of the tiger. Maybe it was because of that that the two missing feral cats decided to come back to see me this evening. I saw the female sniffing at the empty food bowls, and when I went out to feed her I heard the other one scampering across the roof. He must have heard me go out the door and he came down via the fence to get his share of the food. But Alger didn't turn up, so I'm still short a cat. Alger is probably off celebrating the year of the tiger in his own way.
My dad has been very restless the last couple of days. That's the main reason I'm getting even less sleep than the less-than-needed I usually get. They've added another medication to his schedule, so now I'm keeping track of four, plus his feedings, plus adjusting him in his bed after he shifts restlessly about and makes himself uncomfortable. I'm writing in bits and pieces as opportunity allows. I still haven't had dinner. I'm expecting another long night.
I don't remember if I've posted this piece before, but it feels appropriate to my mood:
by Arthur Rimbaud
No one's serious at seventeen.
—On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
—You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds—the town is near—
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .
—Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .
June nights! Seventeen!—Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .
The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
—And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father's starched collar. . .
Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
—And cavatinas die on your lips.
You're in love. Off the market till August.
You're in love.—Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you're bad news.
—Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!
That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
—No one's serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.