Ester's Feathers

Persistently ill, but still does not die.

On Sunday evening, I had dinner at the house of a new friend, and she helped me throw the I Ching. I've never actually done it: I don't know why - I've known tons of people who have. Anyway, the first reading contained the title above. It was a remarkable read, and she gave me a copy of a book to learn to do it. Thank you, Mary.

On Saturday, I started a little painting of Butters. It took me a while to mix the color, but now I have a big old jar of Butters Color. My studio is on street side, and there is usually about maybe 30 cars in an hour that pass by. But on this Saturday, they had blocked off a main portion of the main thoroughfare for some take back the streets shit, and my little street outside became a traffic jam. So that sucked. After awhile I figured I'd just get in my car and go somewhere until they opened the street up again, but quickly figured out I wouldn't be able to get out of my driveway. Butters' pink parts are starting to emerge.

That night as I was doing my relaxin'-with-the-chickens thang, I heard a sound (I should just change my name to Horton) and struggled to place it. It was an eee-eee-eee-eee-eee, and my first thought was one of the gay men who live behind me was washing his windows, it had that sort of squeegie sound. But no: I finally located the sound, because I have to, because I'm insane that way, and it was a pair of flickers doing their little bobbing ritual atop a utility pole. And it was a year ago today that I found my little girl, putzing around the neighborhood, oblivious to the many dangers to her, including the family that was openly discussing how to wring a chicken's neck. And since I have no idea how old she is, we're going to call it her birthday. Happy Birthday, Ester.