July 28, 2018:
Mid '60s. Instamatic, square ratio, very poor contrast. Sea World, Tecolote Canyon, kitties. Neighbor boy, Stingray bike with rollbar and banana seat and butterfly handles, Hardy Boys, Beatles, Fantastic Voyage. Early days in the new apartment: the couch is still brown.
Little black kitty who died. He seems sad, as though he knows his time is short. Leukemia, I think. No memory of what name we gave him. "Indigo" perhaps? "Ebony"?
Danish Modern. Round end tables I still have, fifty years later. Darkwood bookcases, same. It feels good to have these artifacts from childhood, like sedimentary layers of experience or biography. When I die they'll be gone 'cos no-one will value them.
I am very glum. Plaid shirt, gray jeans or faded green. Black hair in bowl cut like a tonsure. Very red lips. Emotionless: flat affect. What's happened? Maybe I'm sad the kitty has died.