Fellow Kitty Cats/those born to it/those not:

Hi. Although I have been taking some considerable pleasure in the space beneath this one, and though I am also in some kind of hollowed out part of the landscape in Vermont, I thought I ought to overcome what was threatening to become, as David Buuck says, [bioperversity]. Have not yet figured out how to ittalicize words on Kitty Cat Blogger. 

Well, my massive plan is, having calmed down, which took a paragraph, to present, over a period of three months or so, my research into the field of carnal lithography.   "Architecture, event and geology co-incide in the GIS map to produce indigo nodes.  These nodes burst, spilling into the grid, which is silver, beneath, and map-like."  Something like that.  Yesterday, I read Mei-mei Bersenbrugge's essay, "New Form", in Samosa Man Cafe in Montpelier.  Samosa Man turns out to be from the Congo and I wanted to meet him, but he wasn't there.  The waitress blasted the music and I sat in a bit of sun at an orange plastic table, where I wrote out Mei-mei's  sentence* in my notebook: "[The poem] is that particular conjunction of events which includes the history of your body, your experience and your art vertically, and the time and circumstances you are in horizontally..."

Not shabby.  There was more, but then a great glittering filled the air outside the window -- shelves of snow blowing off the roof of the buildings across the street.  So I went outside, and as I stood on the sidewalk looking up, Samosa Man arrived, presumably to put some more savory  pastries in the oven in time for the lunchtime rush.  I stuck out my foot to trip him up, and he stumbled. 

*What is a sentence for?

I can see that being on the upper floors is going to be a tricky business.  Already, I am too formal and telling all sorts of lies.  Samosa Man was in Wisconsin, for example, visiting his newborn niece.  Indeed, I did not even feel the need-in-retrospect to have revenged myself upon him, had he been there, as his misuse of the North Indian snack form -- deep fried triangular dough stuffed with chicken and cheese, with hummous on the side -- was wierdly delicious.

Plus, I'm a lady so I used my napkin, already putting me "less at risk," as the poet/mutated novelist Douglas Martin said to me last night, late, over tiny cups of tulsi peppermint tea, "for thrashing about."  Thrashing?  "Yes," said Douglas, "thrashing."