It’s Friday, time for another Diary Strip. Been a quiet week here in a quiet valley. Just puttering away.
Have a great weekend!
Luis Alberto Urrea (born 1955 in Tijuana, Mexico) is a Mexican American poet, novelist, and essayist.
It’s Friday, time for another Diary Strip. Been a quiet week here in a quiet valley. Just puttering away.
Have a great weekend!
Luis Alberto Urrea (born 1955 in Tijuana, Mexico) is a Mexican American poet, novelist, and essayist.
You party animal! Unseasonably warm here, too, followed by single digits Thursday night with subzero wind chills. Blah. At least there is little snow so far.
Just left Albuquerque last week –meetings, then returned home to Western Slope Colorado. Unseasonalbly warm here– usually, it is still winter, so expecting more of the white stuff before long. Your journaling is impressive
Unseasonably warm in Texas too, that cold front sure hit hard all those states above us, maybe Colorado too.
Angels may not carry harps, but they sing stronger than anything on Earth. I have heard the song they will sing cutting back into the atmosphere; Fianna Fumana’s “Di madre in figlia” (Mother and Daughter).
I will endure the storms / I will smile at the April rains / I will dry up in the early morning sun / Winter will put me to sleep.
I will resist the century / I will keep the ancient pathways / I will not surrender to the noise / I will keep on singing
It is _such_ hard work being the kitten. All the things must be pounced on! I remember a night spent with my mom’s kitten – she pounced on every. single. inch. of the bed. All night long.
But yay for reviving morning walks in the wind!
My (now ex-) wife and I used to love the antics of our first cat, who liked to pounce and attack toes and fingers poking up under the bed, waiting for us to GET UP AND FEED ME!
That is, until the time I was waiting for my wife to get back from the bathroom, and the cat chose to pounce on my something that was poking up under the sheets, that was ALSO waiting for my wife to come back to bed.
I still can’t say which was worse: the pain from little kitty teeth gnawing through the sheets, or the laughter from my mate when she came running back to see why I was shrieking.
Stupid cat.
Your last panel reminds me happily of George Booth.
Such a restful place it is. It could be envisioned as a heaven.