I made my first cake today. That might surprise you, considering how much I enjoy cooking. But baking & cooking ate two different things entirely, and whe I've always been a fairly confident chef, it doesn't really extend to the alchemy of baking.

But - there is a birthday and that warrants a cake!

Also made my first chicken pot pie, which is tasty, but since it's a savory, this was not as far out of my comfort zone.

Can't wait to get home & EAT!

The whiskers are twitching ever so slightly, and I think she is in the middle of a dream. Now her front paws are moving a little, back and forth. I lie here imagining what must be the content of her kitty dreams.

Does she dream about her kitten hood? This strange time before I rescued her that will always be a mystery to me.

Does she dream about her kittens? She had 6 of them, four orange tabbies, one tuxedo, and one, the runt, a little calico, like her. Does she hear their high-pitched mewing in her dreams and wonder where they are?

Does she dream of things she does in her day, like chasing her little balls around, or bouncing off the furniture horizontally as she years back and forth, with everything in the room as her obstacle course? Looking out the window at birds and the occasional raccoon?

Or does she dream about being a wild, free jungle cat, able to roam forth and stalk her prey?

I will never know. All I know is, she's my baby, and if anyone ever tried to hurt her, they would live to regret it.

I thought I heard something, but...

There's nothing back here. Just a couple ladders and an extension cord. And complete silence.

So weird...it sounded like...no, that's ridiculous. How could I have thought that? Your mind plays tricks on you when you're by yourself. The imagination is like a runaway train. 

And yet...

Nope. I will put it out of my mind. Three hours before Jim is supposed to be back, and I refuse to be the little woman cowering in fear because of some noise I thought I heard. 

I'll just sit patiently, and wait. 

After much loud meowing, the man finally acquiesced, and allowed the cat out into the hall. She bounded out eagerly into the hallway...and stopped. She looked around. Looked to the end of the hallway, then around, then up at the ceiling, then back at the man, watching her expectantly from the open door. 

Her gaze was reproachful, as if to say, "THIS is where you spend 8 hours a day? MAN are you LAME." 

The cat turned tail and walked back into the apartment, and never meowed to be let out again.

WHO THE HELL IS YORICK?

Put on the shelf, taken off the shelf, they throw me up and down, toss me around and call me Yorick. 

MY NAME IS STAN. Not even Stanley, just Stan. That's it. I used to sell insurance, in Butte, Montana. I had a wife and four kids. And one day I wound up here on the shelf, with all sorts of over-dramatic people calling me Yorick. 

Hamlet, the play is called. It's Shakespeare. Oh, I definitely know who Shakespeare is. I had to read King Lear in college - what a SNORE. Never read Hamlet, though. I knew there was a skull in it, and now, I guess I am that skull. I'm not sure what it's about, I'm thinking it's about death, since there's that whole to be or not to be thing that comes from it, and of course, ME, the skull. 

Obviously, I have a lot of time to ponder, here on this shelf. The lady behind me grows more beautiful by the day - she's mute, though, never says anything. I wish she'd speak. Then I could tell her my real name. I'd so love to hear someone call me Stan again, and from her styrofoam lips, it would be magic.

Skittles and Red Vines and Dots - oh my!

Sugar beans and sugar pits...candy nibs and chocolate bits! Jelly babies and sour patch kids; jolly ranchers under licorice lids.

Hi. It's very blue at dusk tonight.
More than last night?
Yes. Can't you tell?
No - I've got dark windows on.

I look innocent, don't I? Always a part of you. I follow you around everywhere, tethered as we are. So familiar to you that you barely even notice me.

I've seen everything you've ever done, you know. I have my opinions, but I keep them to myself.  

Would you notice if I suddenly weren't here? Would you freak out?

There are things I'd like to do, you know. You think I'm merely a part of you that must always follow...but what if...what if I got away? What would you do? What would *I* do?  

I ponder it often, especially when I see myself through your eyes...the delight of knowing how unnerved you would be if you suddenly saw me detach from you and...and what?

I could do anything. I could sleep with your boyfriend, for starters. Would he even be able to tell, in the dead of night? I could go out and rob a bank. Kill some folks. I wonder if we have the same fingerprint, and they'd trace it all to you?  

I could apply for all those jobs you pass up because you think you're not quite qualified or haven't figured out how to write the perfect resume.

I could write letters to everyone you know. What would I say? Hmmmm...what can you imagine?  

One day, I may find a way to detach.

You should probably be a little afraid.

The winter street speaks...
If you stand still enough to hear it.

The wan Seattle sun sets into
a frigid January night -
no one stays outside long.

Get off the bus, walk briskly those two blocks home.
Park the car, sprint to the door.
The dog gets a quick walk -
No lingering trip around the lake tonight.

But the winter street is out and about.
Icy lamps casting frozen diamonds in the grass
Telling tales of hidden treasure, if you listen hard enough.

Skeletal trees make brittle arches towards the sidewalk
And cars, like silent sentinels growing a moss of frost.
The winter street offers secrets
Inviting any who catch its whispers
To step into this quiet mystery of freezing dark.

So, I've decided to challenge myself to write more using photos as a catalyst. Every day this year, I will take a photograph of something that speaks to me - hopefully they will not all be of Vixen, since she speaks very loudly sometimes! - and write an accompanying narrative. It might be fiction - it might be fact. It might be haiku, or short play or recipe. I dunno - but let the floodgates of inspiration bust open! Today's is offering number one.

                                          ***

This ground looks innocent enough, I suppose. I never thought twice about it as I walked each day on my way home from the bus stop. I hoped I wouldn't get caught under there during an earthquake - who knows whether or not I-5 would buckle under the pressure?

The park and ride was just somewhere I walked to and fro at the beginning of the day and then again at the end. Sometimes I'd go by while walking to Bartell's or Whole Foods. I never thought I'd get stuck here forever and never be able to leave...

It happened so quickly I honestly couldn't have pinned the moment itself down. I was walking home from the bus - same as usual. I heard a loud noise and felt dizzy for a moment, but kept walking. I had almost cleared the bridge when I suddenly found myself back at the beginning of the bus stop again.

Except this time, there was the smoking ruin of an upside-down Lexus in front of me, and all sorts of people running over to the wreck. I ran towards it as well, being so close, yelling "Someone call 911!" I could see that someone was trapped underneath the wreckage, and I prayed a silent prayer she was still alive. I could see her shoes. That's odd, I thought, she has the same shoes as I do.

It was the next moment I realized something was horribly wrong, as a guy I recognized from my daily bus ride ran right through me. And I understood why the pinned woman's shoes were the same as mine. 

                                                                                ***