Watson, are you sure you are not an invertebrate?

WHAT DID YOU CALL ME.

But seriously. Can you sit up while we are talking to you?

I CAN’T HEAR YOU. I FOUND A SLEEPY POCKET AND IT IS RIGHT HERE.

It is after 1am and I do not feel the best about my life. I am 9 pages into an 18 page paper and remain uncertain about this argument. Can I really lay claim to the tragic tradition if I mean to read Eliot’s novels as pessimistic, but possibly triumphant? Hamlet ends sort of optimistically? Fortinbras shows up, and takes the crown without blood on his hands. Sorry your dreams are dead, ladies, but you will live on? Except you, Maggie. Sorry, Maggie.

It is also hard to feel cheerful on airport days; it could be my hundredth airport day and I would still mope. 

ANYWAY. Things are not great, BUT. I walked into my room ten minutes ago to find Watson and Sharpless napping together in the tousled mess of my unmade bed. Look at them! Sharpless likes me, I think (Conor and I got some purrs this weekend!), but has mostly been sitting under my bed when he feels like hanging out. This seems like a promising development in their hilarious friendship. Thanks for staying up with me, babies. I appreciate it. 

Little Moose in his natural habitats. 

“I WILL LET YOU GET AWAY THIS TIME,” said Watson to the Geese.

“HA HA HA SILLY DOG WE WILL EAT YOU IF YOU COME BACK,” said the Geese to Watson.

Family portrait.

I know it can be annoying, but sometimes I vague-blog in vacillation between “no one cares stop being vain” and “what if everyone from work is reading?” Clearly, though, I am mostly alarming friends-I-love-but-am-terrible-about-calling. “What is the point of your very public, regularly updated blog,” I can hear them asking, “if you’re going to move and not explain anything?”

Fair point. 

Here is an general update expressed in Watsons: 

• Watson and I moved, but only to the other way hip, pedestrian-friendly, close-to-the-University neighborhood in Albuquerque. We are walking distance from milkshakes, frozen yogurt, and smoothies. The yard is grassy, spacious, and has a blooming apple tree. We are four blocks from James and a few blocks more from Nate. This is getting to be Chatter/Church of Beethoven HQ, especially because —
• We are living with Tony, Chatter’s Business Manager and Sharpless, the kitty. Tony works from home most of the day which means Watson is much less lonely. He and Sharpless chase each other around and then nap in mirror-image dumpling shapes (which is happening as I type). 
• Which is to say, everything is well and we are well. My lease ended at the other house and staying there meant holding on to unnecessary resentment. Sadly, moving and moving-adjacent events mean I no longer live with the chickens and may not have a garden this year. I will try to do some scaled-down growing, though, after the end of the semester.
• If you don’t hear from me for a few weeks, it is because I have 45 pages to write by the end of the month. One paper connecting George Eliot’s audience to the Victorian audience for Shakespeare’s tragedies, exploring the ways references to Shakespeare reinforce or challenge the tragic tradition. One paper considering power dynamics in Victorian medical care, Harriett Martineau’s experience with mesmerism, and silenced testimonies in a recently republished sensation novel, The Notting Hill Mystery. Wish me luck. 
• Here are some updates about the people Watson and I love most. Kelli is making a baby girl in her womb and Max is going to be a big brother! First, though, there is going to be a wedding. Watson’s grandmother made him a formal bow tie for the occasion. Conor is in the last revision for his thesis on Milton Babbitt and will soon be a Doctor of Musical Arts (so fancy!). He finishes his teaching appointment at Smith College this May, and the world? It will be his oyster. Elizabeth is moving to California! She decided to defer her offer from a big NYC firm to be a government attorney (US Citizenship and Immigration Services) in Echo Park. Cue another round of “Elizabeth is so smart” from my mom.

There. All caught up. 

With love, 

Silvia

There is something unsettling about emptying the room in which you did all your living. I thought it was full of futures and memories, but it was ever only full of things. I thought it would be hard to leave. It wasn’t. Life was good here. You can pack up the good, though, and leave just the room behind.

Come on, Watsy. Time to go.

I want to take a rest from moving-working-Foucault to talk about cats.

Cats, am I right?

I have never lived with a cat before. Everything I knew about cats I learned from the Internet. I’ve visited with cats, and loved many of them, but I don’t really know about cats. I still don’t.

This is Sharpless. He’s our new roommate. I think he might be a ghost-ninja. Watson thinks he is the only thing more interesting than cookies. Here is what we have learned so far:

• Cats can walk through walls
• Cats don’t like it when you flush the toilet
• Peacock feathers are the enemy
• You can’t “call” a cat
• There’s no “put out of reach of the cat”
• Hugs are not a thing
• But melty-kitty-puddle is totally a thing

Data collection continues.

Feeling anxious about life (so many pages to write, so many things to move, Watson might be sick in a minor way*), so had Watson join me inside of a slide at the park to hide from our responsibilities and watch the sun set.

* It seems that Watson’s accidents are not behavioral, as I thought, but maybe signs of an incontinence issue. We are going to the vet on Tuesday to find out. 

Maybe I should be doing laundry or writing about Victorian conceptions of tragedy or transitioning my closet to Spring, but DOG PLAY DATE. LOOK AT THEIR FACES.

Little Watson, toasty and clean from the dryer*, sleeping on my knees because, what? that’s comfortable for everyone (no, no it is not). 

*I am kidding. Watson gets washed on the “delicates” setting and is then air dried by the ears alongside my nice sweaters. 

Pictures of me, pictures of Watson. 

A snowy morning — the first one I’ve had in New Mexico all winter long (I missed the December storm). 

I looked at my pretty frozen garden and Watson ate some snow. 

So you’re still crate trained.

OF COURSE I AM. DON’T INSULT ME.

Hey, remember last week when you peed on my blanket?

IT WAS SATURDAY NIGHT. WE WERE SUPPOSED TO CUDDLE.

Hey, remember two weeks ago when you peed on my blanket?

WE WERE SUPPOSED TO CUDDLE.

Sorry, buddy. I know. How about we only use the crate if I go out on weekend evenings? The rest of the time it’s here as your third bed in this room?

I CAN CATCH POPCORN MID-AIR.

Fair point.

Potato King of Volcano Mountain.