November 15, 2009
Amy and Deron
lived right on a boundary between the 13th and the 14th arrondissements, and their home was a large-ish kind of guesthouse. They had their own wing, as big as a solo house, and there were apartments for visitors. A man who reminded me of Manuel from Fawlty Towers had charge of guest arrangements.
All of the guests last night were artists of one stripe or other. We watched a film projected onto the wall. A woman recited a soliloquy from a familiar movie. I think it might have been a Bette Davis weeper.
I went out on an errand and found a kitten. I brought it back to Amy’s and Deron’s place on my head, and on the way, it entwined itself in my hair and arranged itself into a sort of coiffure.
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The kitten-do looked fab, by the way.
sounds like clusterstock.
Hopefully this is a vision from the future.
With a Frenchified flair.
Oh, yep.
My dreams are visions.
Carriage houses and cat-do’s can’t go wrong. I believe I was in one of the apartments nearby. I was furiously typing into a laptop words that may mean nothing more than the words that might have come out of my mouth had I been speaking after a cocktail or four on an evening where I may have heard a stuck kitten YOWL in the night as I furiously typed. I can just picture it you know? I’m there, you know? Engrossed. As for the Bette Davis soliloquy, I might prefer a “fasten your seatbelts” kind of night.
French-fried flair.
Sheila, I do hope the kitten in your hair was a tabby?
Matter of fact, she was.
French word for car port of a sort.