What inspires the inscription of a life?  This is something I was thinking about today as I stood at the Belvedere, one of my favorite thinking spots.  This blog has remained silent for over a month now, not because my life hasn’t been worth inscribing and recording, but because my life is unfolding in a private bliss that feels too special and precious to write about publicly.  But today, while standing at the railing at the Belvedere riverfront, I noticed for the first time that the metal surface of the railing was full of etchings and scratchings that made permanent the moments of innumerable lives.  The graffiti either announced the existence of a relationship and True Love, or it announced that that person was there, at that spot, on that particular date.  This impulse to inscribe a life can come from the most mundane of things, or it can come from a place of profound emotion, and there is something beautiful and inspiring about the insistence with which our lives want to be made known, to an audience of a few, or an audience of many.

Due to some nonsense and tomfoolery related to my apartment door lock, I spent some time on the phone with a building maintenance worker trying to solve my problem. The problem was this: when I unlocked my door upon returning home this evening, I was unable to remove the key from the lock.

While talking me through some amateur locksmithing on the phone, I had to excuse myself to retrieve Septimus, who, finding the apartment door open, made a run for it down the hallway. I’m not sure where he thought he was going, but he was certainly determined to get there. As it happens, the maintenance guy I was talking to had been in my apartment earlier that day while I was gone; he repaired my cranky thermostat and thus coaxed my recalcitrant air conditioner back to life.

When I asked him to please hold so I could go chase my cat, he said, “That big fat white cat?”

I said, “Yes, that’s the one.”

“He was a nice cat,” he said. “He was friendly to me when I was there today. He made funny squeaking noises.”

“Yes,” I replied. “He just has some things to say sometimes.”

This morning I felt like taking a little walk. I headed north, toward the river, and made my way to the Belvedere. I stood at the railing and stared at the water for a long time, thinking very happy (but unbloggable) thoughts. I watched traffic traverse the Second Street Bridge just a few blocks east of me. To the west, I could see the McAlpine Locks and Dam and the Falls of the Ohio State Park. I closed my eyes and felt the unexpectedly strong breeze on my face and hair.

When I decided that I had gotten enough staring-into-space time, I headed south, and then west. It seemed like a good idea to visit Louis XVI at the corner of Sixth and Jefferson. I examined him from all angles and thought about him, and his curious penchant for blacksmithing, and his inability to consummate his marriage until seven years later. It occurred to me that his legacy is not unlike that of another monarch who met a similarly tragic end, Nicholas II. Both were good men, but weak, indecisive, and not terribly bright, and utterly unsuited to ruling a country, let alone a country ravaged by revolt.

After Louis XVI politely acquiesced to a thorough photo session, I concluded my historical musings and walked back home.

Right now I am sitting in my favorite window seat at my favorite coffeeplace, watching people out the window. I love Bardstown Road, especially this part of it, close to the intersection of Eastern Parkway. There is such an interesting cross section of Louisville life to be seen here. So far I have seen: gay daddies pushing a baby in a stroller, a hipster straight couple pushing a baby in a stroller, a goth-looking girl who I seem to see around these parts a lot, a long-haired dude wearing a t-shirt reading “Normal People Scare Me,” and a mail carrier delivering mail. There are people working in the garden at the church across the street. They are doing mysterious things with big clippery implements, a plastic container with a hose attached to the top, and a wheelbarrow. There is a new restaurant next door, a Persian place, and someone just came out and set up the big sandwich board sign announcing today’s special: celery beef stew.

Sometimes I do things, or see things, or think about things, or have feelings about things that I do not blog about. This is because they are complicated and private. It this were a pseudonymous or anonymous blog, I would likely feel more comfortable blogging about those things. But this is not that kind of blog. So, instead, I offer some bloggable thoughts I’m thinking while watching the world outside the window. A presentation I’m working on for a conference this fall. What celery beef stew might taste like. (It sounds gross.) Wondering when the new season of The Office will start. How John Edwards is an effing toolshed. What Emily might have for lunch today. Whether I should call my friend who lives around the corner from this coffeeshop to see if she wants to drink coffee with me. Getting the oil changed in my car.

Also: Geography lessons. Wallace Stevens. And certain other things that will remain private, complicated, and unbloggable.

My cat Septimus is five-year-old cranky moose.  He demonstrates his mooseness by being a big, solid, 15 lb. boy who never misses a meal.   He evinces his crankiness as follows:

1. A tendency to nip at one’s ankles (although this habit seems to be in remission, and my ankles are grateful)
2. A curious penchant for mewling pathetically for no earthly apparent reason, preferably in the middle of the night
3. A proclivity for sitting in the corner, Blair Witch style, and meowing at absolutely nothing (which tendency makes me think that Septimoose can see ghosts)
4. A unquenchable thirst for getting into unauthorized things and places

This last characteristic is the most exasperating thing about Septimus.  One of his favorite unauthorized things to do is eat and destroy books.  His favorite time to do this is in the middle of the night.  There are certain bookshelves and books that he seems to prefer; my paperback copies of the Harry Potter books completely lack covers and the first few pages.

Since his preferred time to destroy books is in the wee hours of the night, this means that I am frequently awakened by the worrying sound of tearing paper.  I get up, stumbling around, bleary-eyed, trying to make the bookeating STOP so I can get back to sleep.  (I do not take kindly to having my sleep disturbed.)  And because I am semi-conscious when I am trying to make the bookeating STOP, I take desperate, elaborate, and half-baked measures that look rather ridiculous in the clear light of the morning.

This is how we end up with something like this.  It made perfect sense in the middle of the night to drape the bookshelves with a blanket, erect a barricade made of pillows, and then add a pile of clothes to the top for good measure.  But now I’m looking at it and wondering:  what in the world was I thinking?

And, if you look in the lower right corner, you can see evidence that my efforts were clearly inadequate.

By popular demand!  Here is how I made my gazpacho salad.  It was inspired by this recipe, but I made it my own (as Randy Jackson would say on American Idol.)

1 huge zucchini

2 medium tomatoes

1 orange pepper

1 yellow pepper

1 medium red onion.

Chop everything up.  Throw it in a bowl.  Salt and pepper.  A few drizzles of olive oil (I used garlic-infused olive oil).  That’s it!  Done!  It’s also good with balsamic vinaigrette, but I preferred it without.

Yield: a metric ton, approximately.  It’s a lot for one person.  It started getting a little soggy by the third day, but it’s still good.

I have a weird and complicated relationship with food. Mostly, I eat what I want when I want it. I don’t pay attention to calories or fat grams or whatever, because I feel subservient and powerless when I do so. (I told you that this was weird.) I have been the kind of person who cares about those things, and I am pretty sure that this preoccupation made me a really boring and unhappy person. Ultimately, I rejected that kind of obsession and the body hatred that accompanied it. Instead, I thwart patriarchy by eating whatever the fuck I want. (I’m only half-joking.) These past few days, my body has been saying: GREEN FOOD PLEASE. ALSO: VEGETABLES WOULD BE NICE. I obliged my body’s polite request. I made this beautiful and delicious gazpacho salad, inspired by a recipe I saw on a cooking show. It is almost too lovely to eat. But I’m eating it anyway. This will feed me for a few days, and for those few days, I will feel healthy and strong and capable. All because I am eating vegetables.

Today I did one of my favorite Sunday afternoon things to do. I went to my favorite local coffee shop, bought a beverage (pomegranate iced tea), sat outside, read my book, wrote in my journal, stared off into space, thought some thoughts, and watched cars traverse the vast expanse of Bardstown Road. As I was sitting there, occupied by my exciting inner life, some guy sat down at the table next to me, and pretty soon a small crowd of people gathered around him. I was really irritated, because groups of people sitting next to me tend to distract me from my very important activities (namely: staring off into space). But when I noticed what exactly was drawing the crowd, I found myself joining the crowd, too. This guy had no fewer than five adorable puppies with him. He rescued them from an animal shelter, apparently, and you could tell, because as I sat on the ground and cuddled any puppy that would let me, I was startled by the boniness of their tiny frames. I felt the urgent beating of their hearts and wished that I were in a position to take in a puppy or two. But since I’m not, I had to content myself with scratching their little faces and imagining a safe and happy future for their helpless little lives.

I had dinner with my friend P. the other night, and I saw this car in the parking lot.  I don’t know about you, but I think that the juxtaposition of “BLING BLING BIATCH” on the rear windshield and the Catholic radio station sticker above the license plate is a classy touch.

After the first World War, a number of my Sicilian relatives chose to emigrate to France instead of the United States, and in the summer of 1976, my great-grandparents Mama Teresa and Papa Charlie spent a month in France visiting those relatives.  While there, Mama Teresa wrote several letters to her daughter (my grandmother) informing her of their travels and activities.  My grandmother made copies of those letters and sent them to me, because she thought I might enjoy seeing them, and I have to say that she was right. Mama Teresa has been gone twenty years this past February, so it was a shock to see her handwriting again, right there in front of me.  Here she was, in my hands, alive and well and having a wonderful time in Europe with her beloved husband.  If it was startling to see her handwriting again, it was even more startling to read this 32-year-old piece of family news.  In a certain letter written on June 15, 1976, Mama Teresa tells my grandmother that she and Papa Charlie were contenti e sorpresi to receive a letter from her oldest grandson and his wife containing la buona notizia dell’aspettito del nuovo bambino.  Translation:  they were happy and surprised to learn the good news that their grandson and wife were expecting a new baby.  Dear reader, that baby was me.