Misha The Poet Laureate

Good morning. The cat has the zoomies right now. Wants all the attention in the world. Is eating better. New food and more energy. Has that annoying habit of reaching under the bathroom door while you are pooping, just to feel that you are there. Object permanence doesn’t seem to be his strong suit.

5:30 a.m. protocols seem to be in place again. Getting up after not nearly enough sleep. Maybe I’ve been getting too much afternoon caffeine or something. Maybe the anxiety of waiting after the job interview is having it’s way with me. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I’m a lost witch, my body left behind by the chance for work for meaning and spirit. Maybe I want to complicate things, turn myself upside down for a delight of change.

Waterproof notebooks coming to put in the swim bag. Pencil already in there. Capture devices everywhere.

The line “Does he sense how the stardust of transition sparks my flesh” desrves a better poem. Next time.

Good morning. It’s 2026-04-05, and it’s a Tuesday.

Cinco de mayo and taco tuesday on the same day. Gay tacos is going to be BUSY tonight.

Just back from the pool. Went early so I could meet a dear friend for coffee, but she isn’t feeling well today, so I’m at the writing desk instead. During my swim the line “Does he sense how the stardust of transition sparks my flesh” popped in, and it deserves a better poem than what I wrote. I’ll try again later in the notebook.

Chatting with my friend K about Frank Herbert and the Bulterian Jihad. Revealed to her that Herbert wrote a book about personal computing. We contain multitudes.

Spent another hour this morning looking at notebook covers. Listen: I already have the perfect wallet/notebook/pen/ebook hybrid. I don’t need another fucking notebook cover.

But it’s sooo pretty.

A good reminder when I am encountering rural and working folk:

“The Rural didn’t vote for Trump. They voted for Nothing.

These aren’t the people who voted for Trump; these are part of the majority who saw no point in voting at all.”

“God is not Almighty. He struggles, for he is in peril every moment; he trembles and stumbles in every living thing, and he cries out.”

-Kazantzakis, the last temptation of christ. A Heresy I can get behind.

Good morning, it is 2026-05-04, and it’s a Monday.

Get up at 5:30 because I’m back on my bullshit. Spend an hour reading overnight news and checking the socials. Feed Gus the cat. Listen to him meow. Somehow he opened the bedroom door and was meowing at Jade to wake up. Reprimanded him, and closed the door more securely. Piss. Make pour over coffee. Sit down at the Black Book, and write out my morning routine, like a good girl pretending to write.

This week is going to be the kind of quiet busy I like. 2 coffee dates with friends. A short trip to the river. Breakfast with a friend at the city’s last shitty diner (affectionately). Trying to Meat those Days while I can.

I will not become the kind of writer who only writes about her cat.