Monthly Archives: July 2011

Loch Over There

I think I figured out where Mordecai is going next.


Perhaps I should lend him my fleece-lined kilt.


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Fishing for Lines

It’s too hot and humid for me to go outside today, so I’m sitting in the library surrounded by oscillating fans and reading material. I’ve broken out my summer-time secret as well; I keep metal canteens filled with water in the freezer. When the weather turns this hot, I strap a few to me with my old canteen belts and as the water thaws, my temperature drops. It leads to some soggy reading chairs, but it’s worth it to keep my temperature down.

Mordecai is preparing for a mysterious journey, and I wonder if he plans to search for underground fishing locales. Legend has it that he would only have to go across the river to Manhattan, though by the looks of his pack, it appears he’s preparing to go much further.

If you can, grab yourself a cold glass of lemonade and read something. You can start with this. I find that nothing cools like a good spark of imagination.


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Slow Walks, Sloth Stalks

I met up with my dear friend Miranda K√ľnstler for some delicious raspberry ice tea, a hearty meal, and a long walk through the neighborhood. As usual, she inspired me with discussions about art, medicine and travel.

Isn’t it marvelous how lively discussion and a good friend can buoy a mid-summer mood?

I brought her back to the house to show off my garden. I had a full pail of green beans for snacks out in the garden when I’d left earlier. Mysteriously, the beans are missing.

First blush says that Bubo took them. Except that she doesn’t enjoy green beans. She turns her beak up at them, in fact. And Mordecai has been reading the complete works of Thomas Wolfe on the teak chaise lounge with a full pitcher of Tom Collins. So he didn’t eat them.

I believe, clearly, that there is a bean-loving sloth living in the garden. I’ve noticed nothing zipping through the garden, heard no new noises in the eaves of the house. Clearly the bean-thief is quiet and stealthy. Or so slow that it appears to be stealthy.

I wouldn’t mind having a sloth, truth be told. They seem like my kind of creature.

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Well it’s an absolutely stunning day in Brooklyn, perfect for celebrating La Fete Nationale. (That’s Bastille Day for all the English speakers reading this.)

In order to celebrate properly, I am sipping St. Germain and champagne while reading in the garden. Mordecai took his cocktail in a pint glass and slithered off to the west workroom, ostensibly to build something disastrous.

I am taking it easy and soaking in the gentle breezes while a snail parade slowly marches past. Ah, escargot and champagne in the garden. What could possibly be better?

Bubo not picking off parade participants, for one, I suppose. She’s got a silk scarf jauntily tied around one ankle and keeps whistling “Bastille Day” by Rush. Oh, this owl.

Viva La France, mes animaux familiers.

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