Ester's Feathers

The broom as moving meditation.

Over the weekend I hacked down a 4'X4' rosemary bush that was half dead, and it opened up a large continuation of the brick work, only it was buried under dirt and mud. So I started sweeping, and then I realized my brain had become beautifully silent. Until it was not, and then it was really going in some interesting directions. I think this is a benefit for people who like to walk (I'm not one of them), who are often quoted as saying all their ideas come to them in their walks. I thought when I got Lulu that walking would be more compelling, but she makes it worse. She hates all other dogs and has to cram her snout into every human we pass. I'm often gritting my teeth by the time we get home. But I swept for a good hour last night (in fact, I'm a little sore this morning, which is truly pathetic).

That's Butters, standing on my hand. I love chicken feet: they're so warm.

We had a bit of a police presence in the 'hood last night. There were 3 cop cars a few houses down (the ice cream lovers) when I got home, and then as the evening progressed, more and more until I counted 8. Christ on a crutch, what was going down? So, out I venture until I come to a circle of about 5 cops, who, the minute they saw me, all looked in different directions, anywhere but at that shit-ass white lady coming down the block, even though I didn't even have my WTF face on: I was appropriating more a countenance of concerned citizen. When finally one of the poor slobs happened to catch my eye, I made a bee line for him and asked him what was up. I'm always surprised by how robotic most cops are, this guy being no exception. He avoided eye contact and told me it was a family situation and that I should just lock myself up tight and fuggetaboutit. Thank you, I said. A beat. Two. You're welcome, he said, sounding bemused to have been thanked.