The lack of productivity today was so blissful. Norah, the cat who hid in the basement to avoid the dog all spring and summer, keeps spending more time out in the open. After lunch she climbed in my lap and fell asleep. This hasn't happened since April, and I've really missed it. First I was enjoying it, and then I awakened two hours later with an additional cat and a dog snoring with us. Perhaps moments like this bring me so much pleasure because I prefer to think of myself as a big mammal rather than a human.
The pansies are finally planted with assistance from Murphy the Beagle. Plants look much happier in the ground. I'm not sure what the scientific measure of a happy plant might be, but they perk up, look more erect and sturdy. If the first freeze comes tonight or the big rains, the garden will be ready.
Plans for this evening are leftovers: baked potato, meatloaf, and broccoli. They will be eaten while watching the second half of a documentary about Derrida, called, Derrida. When I stopped watching yesterday, he'd just managed to wriggle out of a question about why philosophers have always pondered love -- he said there was nothing to original to say. The interviewer allowed a graceful change of subject by asking about Plato's interpretation of love. I'd like to think there is something new to say about love, but I haven't managed to disprove this brilliant French man.
