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Monday, November 19, 2012

On leaving America - Part 30

If you have to get up early in the morning and not be late for work. If you get a paycheck. If you need this job. If you commute to get to it . . . If you have to be there. You are the working class--the vast majority of people on this planet . . . been that way since time began. Only the scenery changes . . . the acts remain the same.

I’ve had the feeling we would sell the house on the 3rd week. This week is our third week coming up I think. It will be interesting to see. We must leave the house when people come, but realtors are only asking thirty minutes or less for people to look around. It’s easy to lose that much time, diversions and errands. Shopping, filling station, cleaners. We went to see Lincoln this weekend. One of the most boring movies I have ever sat through. Lou loved it—thought it was wonderful. Being Swedish helped, I think, a much less familiar story for her.

The cats continue to locked away in the small bedroom during our ever more frequent absents. Bucks hates it. Amber likes her place on the tree we’ve stashed by the window. She loves heat . . . to lay in the sun. Her fur is soft and deep and warm. I pet her a just a few strokes, if I risk more she will get up. I want her where she is, on her back, slightly curved, feet in the air, basking in a shaft of sunlight. What a beautiful thing.

Maybe it’s her utter state of peace that so attracts me. I want days when there is nothing to be done. To be at home, a normal life again . . . no stress and no not knowing. Home at last, home at last, Thank God I’m home at last! Maybe it never really gets that good, but our next moves will be made in search of temporary pleasures out of choice and not require new houses. It will be another year at least before I reach that state. Faster for Lou I think. She will be, ‘home at last’ after fourteen years. A major change for her, as was her coming here . . . except she spoke the language long before arrival.

Bucks sits on the other side of the small bedroom's door and pounces like a Dallas linesman when it’s opened, attempting to bolt between the legs of an unwary realtor. He’s made it once, and will again I’m sure. It must be getting like a game to him, the different people looking in—sort of a reverse Jack in the Box. He waits . . .What do his cat-like instincts tell him of this human . . . or that one? What kind of trick will work? The women faun on him, ‘Oh he’s so cute,’ which makes it a problem. They get in the way. Men realtors are more stand-offish and offer a better chance of escape. 

So far the score is: Realtors 6 Bucky 1.

 [Is this bold font easier to read that this last?  

Would bigger be better?]

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