There is beautiful neon just up the street at this wine shop on Sunset. And a good marquee to boot. A true double threat. (Inside they have special ice cream, too.)
There is something sweet about winter in Los Angeles, the cold playing against type, the late afternoon sunsets, the feel of hibernation. Of course there’s much suffering too, not least the many people sleeping rough through rain and cold. But living close to other people has to mean living close to all sorts of experiences, all sorts of lives. How else would I know what needs fighting for?
It’s time for an early bed. The cat will follow, if only to perform her nightly ritual of rubbing the corners of her mouth against the bedtime book (I Hotel by Karen Tei Yamashita, a San Francisco book) before she skulks off to sleep on the window ledge. And then I will throw my mountain of pillows to the floor and join her in the rilling rivers of sleep.
She’s ten years old as of Christmas, at least that’s what I estimate. She was a little kitten in the Boston snow in mid-January when she curled into my life.
Now she’s gotten up, looked around, and curled up at my feet. There’s something about cats, in their pickiness, that is delectable.
I’m laying on the couch with my cat. She is happy I’m home. First we played with ribbon and then I pet her, which mainly means letting her rub her face against my fingers. Now we are laying here, her pressed against my legs. It feels nice, cozy, hangin’ with my old friend.
