The Cat Spot

(Ideally this would be be drawn but I can't draw so I have to use photos until someone can draw this man into a cartoon of some sort) A tall man lives in an attic. He maintains a natural state of cynical, somber solidarity. Surviving in a neutral milk honey existence. Contemplation consumes the soul with a contention of unexplained desires. Nothing makes sense, which means everything makes sense, inevitably. A fallen knife strikes a chord of agitation. Is it the knife, or is it the fall? The knife takes the blame even though the fall is in the same. Doing dishes and having dignity are one in the same. The explains, blames, complains and holding on to disdains about how we got to from where we came, ultimately concludes it's really all the same. It's just a game. A prowess of the vain and sane. Who gains? Who maintains? Who goes insane? We know nothing which means we know everything, inevitably. Pain, apologies, and once believed propaganda become a solstice of drain with

Woke up with a taste of nostalgia. I haven't missed my mom in more than a while. It felt good to remember her. As I placed my amethyst earrings in their holes, I sighed a loud, "God I miss you Terri." To work at the Lizzadro Museum of Lapidary Art is to be in a constant state of nostalgia. Not only from the stone sculptures of Chinese Dynasties, but also my grandfathers essence that haunts the place with his original office and library still intact. When I sit up front greeting guests and doing research, I yearn to hear grandpa Joe's voice call me into his office and give me something to do. Never met the man. Only see him every week in a stone portrait custom made in Florence, Italy as a tribute to his passing. The afternoon lingered. A woman came in. As I watched her sign the guestbook I thought to myself: I know this woman. Yes, it has to be her.   She approached the front desk. "Hi, I use to have one of the grandaughters in my class a while ba