It is hard to write creatively with the joined cacophony of music that is not mine, the ladies talking in the kitchen over the pops and hisses of Indian food sizzling in the pan, and with a stomach that is full of freshly grilled steak. (Yes, heathen that I am, I ate before coming over. But come on, the steaks would go bad if I waited too much longer)

I want to write something poetic, or, at the very least, something that means something, but the words are not flowing, and it looks like tonight might be a series of short blogs about the moment.

I've come to the realization that unless you are somewhat famous, or a very good writer, or both, most people are not interested in reading about your day. So then comes the choice, the decision if I'm writing for myself, or for my as yet non-existent audience, or simply for the sake of writing.

One way, I don't think I'll ever be happy with what I produce, and another, I'll be held to the whims of others, so I think I'll just let the words flow organically, and become what they will.

Besides, this free-flowing ramble is all that I can come up with if I'm typing on the computer. It seems that most of my creativity flows from ink pens onto wrinkled pages of notebooks.

and I've been interupted, accosted by a kitty, one that seems a little camera shy:


Yes, that's my side being raked with Missile's claws. She's a feisty lady.

One in the process of hacking up a hairball. Fortunately, she's on the other side of the room now.

Cats are gross.

The spices from the food being cooked are making my eyes water.

I declare this post officially rudderless and adrift somewhere off the coast of finland.