Twisted: A Pink Cat

Detail of a drawing son did when he was maybe five or six.

It’s a big drawing, about three feet by two feet. And almost a third of it is taken up by the cat’s tail:

DSCN9985

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

How a Friendship Can Be Ruined by Bad Hair: The Summer Book, p. 25

Self loves Tove Jansson’s The Summer Book (translated from the Swedish by Thomas Teal). Loves, loves, loves. The prose is so simple, yet has such a magical quality.

A little girl (Sophie, who’s six) and her grandmother spend an entire summer on an island. They’re not the only ones on the island, of course. There are farmers, and also the girl’s father, who is always shut up in the house, working. The girl’s mother has just died. But there is no grief, just a series of snapshots of the girl, the grandmother, the island. Love it.

There’s a section called Berenice, about the first time Sophie invites a friend to the island: “a fairly new friend, a little girl whose hair she admired.”

The fragile bond is broken only a little while later:

Sophie: Well, that does it. She’s impossible. I got her to dive, but it didn’t help.

Grandmother: Did she really dive?

Sophie: Yes, really. I gave her a shove and she dived.

Grandmother: Oh. And then what?

Sophie: Her hair can’t take salt water. It looks awful. And it was her hair I liked.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Moss and Islands: from Tove Jansson’s THE SUMMER BOOK

p. 11:

Only farmers and summer guests walk on the moss. What they don’t know — and it cannot be repeated too often — is that moss is terribly frail. Step on it once and it rises the next time it rains. The second time, it doesn’t rise back up. And the third time you step on moss, it dies. Eider ducks are the same way — the third time you frighten them up from their nests, they never come back. Sometime in July the moss would adorn itself with a kind of long, light grass. Tiny clusters of flowers would open at exactly the same height above the ground and sway together in the wind, like inland meadows, and the whole island would be covered with a veil dipped in heat, hardly visible and gone in a week.

Where is this island of which Tove Jansson writes? Self would like to go there.

Also, self would just like to mention, that in the past week, three whale carcasses have washed up in northern California. The latest dead whale washed up in Oakland. This is very worrisome. All were killed by ships.

Stay tuned.

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