Weather: Beautiful, Indian summer

Reading: Just finished The Rule of Four, Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason. Really good book. Now I'm going to start on The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon.

Knitting: a blanket for in the car, except I think now that it's going to go on a purple chair in the living room. It is the chair that the cat thinks is hers.

And did I ever show you a picture of the cat? I don't know how to do that on here, as it's not up on any website of mine own to link to. She's pretty, though. Her name is Wow, she's 12 years old, and she officially belongs to Maggie, but she is living with me and she likes me very much, and I pretend that she is my cat except when Maggie is here and even then sometimes I do but Maggie catches me at it and I don't care beacuse Wow is a neat cat and I want her to be mine but really no one can own a cat anyway, so what difference does it make? A cat belongs to itself, and we who live with them are on their staff.

October already, and I have only finished knitting one present. My carpal tunnel stuff is bad, though, that it's hard to knit at all, so people might just get store-bought - or e-bay bought - stuff this year. Probably they would only feign disappointment anyway. I am not such a fine knitter, only an enthusiastic one. I have this serial obsession thing, and knitting is sometimes it.

Hubby's current mania of the moment is genealogy. It is interesting to find all these relative you never knew you had, but all of them will still be dead in the morning, so I can't see staying up all night looking up stuff about them. He said something to me about writing down a thing about one of my graanddads, and I asked why, and he said, "Because that's family history." And of course he's right, only it needs to be an anecdote, or a story, in addition to the thing that dad saaaid about his dad, because without the stories, all you're writing is the begats. The boring part of the Bible that no one wants to read. I never want to write some crap like that. I'd rather make something up entirely out of my head.

Speaking of which. I keep getting story ideas, but I keep not writing them down. I am so busy mentally and physicall there is no energy left. Creativity is what keeps me alive, though, and I think it's what keeps most of the living alive, if they really knew what it was that drove them. If I only ever take in - read, watch movies, study, parrot back things I've studied, chat with people - then I dry up. I get melancholy. No, that is a shitty old bankrupt word. I get dried out, I get wasted in my insides and nothing can come out because I'm constipated. Got to have stuff going in and stuff coming out. Gross, but true.