|vintage sweater // carin wester skirt // x-girl bag // shoes from bird on a wire|
The low wall in front of our house is a fluid border that ostensibly separates the sidewalk from our front patio but is, in reality, an ad hoc community perch where dogs, birds, neighbors, and interlopers alike sit and chat just loud enough for me and the mister to glean every rote detail about the their plans to re-tile the roof or the quotidian tortures suffered from the new girl at the office or the diminishing quality of the neighborhood insects... all from the comfort of our own sofa.
Surrender to this nameless force of familiarity takes the form of barbeques on our front patio, where the smell of roasting meats nets passersby in her smoky arms. Beers are drank. Accords are silently confirmed. The other night barbecued tilapia and chicken alongside baby octopi, their little loopy bodies ready to fall through the grate and into the coals. They were very good, like chewing on new erasers. Sterling would later reiterate his reluctance to eating octopus in the wake of several recent studies shewing evidence that these taupe mollusks possess more mental and emotional intelligence than dogs. Thus my first ethics-based dietary restriction is born. I must refrain from eating octopus at all costs.
Thankfully, squid are stupid as fuck.