June 25, Sunday, 10am: I've never been growled at by a cat before. Walking up to the gate this morning, a cat is in the court, with her kitten. The kitten is white, with some black notes. It looks stubby to me, but maybe it's just the angle. The cat hisses, does this lion-like pose, opens her mouth. I try to turn the gate handle - she rwals and coils again. I'm reminded of the relation among the feline family, slightly amused, slightly uncertain. "Girl mauled by street cat while attempting to open gate": it'd make a great headline.

Today I feel productive: two loads of hand laundry (no washing machine), work on special projects, go to church and give someone back her book, make cheese. Lately I've been in a cheese-making mood. Mind you, before two weeks ago, I'd never made cheese before, though I'd always wanted to. Something about being raised on Laura Ingalls Wilder books. So I buy fresh milk from the lady on the street, take it home, pour it in a pot, add about two tablespoons (~20ml?) of vinegar, stir it well, set it to boil and wait for curds to form! It boils a minute or two, it cools for about 10, then it gets poured through a fine cloth to drain the whey from the curds. I really like the whey. Don't throw it out! It still has a lot of protein and minerals - it's good for boiling beans or recipes that call for milk, or just to drink. But the curds: they drain for a while (between an hour and eight, depending on how hard you like the cheese), and then you put then in a container in the fridge!

Ok, so it's not the most advanced cheese, but it's fun, and it tastes nice and fresh, and I know its origins.

Monday: The best thing that happened this weekend occurred while walking through Borissovata Gradina with a friend: I saw, written on a post along the walkway, one word: "SatOne", and I knew I was walking where Someone had been a week prior. And this made me happy. Don't get me wrong, I'm not lovesick or even infatuated; it just provides good memories.

Tuesday: You do not need to know where I have been today, save that I felt terribly guilty about not having access to a phone. Sometimes self-guilt is worse that that instigated from exterior sources.

Wednesday: Last night I ate an eyeball. This was one of the things that had always seemed a bit iffy, so I made myself. Don't think about it, and it tastes good. Think about it, and it still tastes good. Brain, however, still doesn't do anything for me.

Oh, R and I were at a restaurant and I had ordered a lamb head. This was Very Cool. Kind of like being a surgeon, dissecting a head. And the same day as interviewing Marc Bretillot and talking about how people don't think about the connection to what they eat. Hmm. Maybe this will turn into a culinary column.

Friday, 15h43: I feel lasse. But lasse is not the right word. I don't know what the right word it; that is the one that comes to mind. It's like saying a word 50 times and eventually it loses all sense. Smisul. Damn that man. Nikolai Vassilev makes me have nightmares, or the Magdalena Equivalent. I don't have nightmares. I only have stress dreams: searching, constantly searching, never attaining the vruh. You see what this is doing to me? Betwixt the French and the English and the disappeared Spanish, there enters Bulgarian.
Oh my love, where hast thou gone? But you have never existed.

But back to Vassilev: he is killing the Bulgarian language: `u' is not `a', it is `u'. Balgaria. I wish him bald. Tarnovo - tarnation to you, buddy.

I am feeling anticipatory, relaxed, on edge, wanting to do something, wanting to chill. Agir.

I have a God who knows my name/who sees my hurts/who feels my pains.

There was joy, jubilation in her voice when we talked on Wednesday, my mum. She arrives on July 12. I think of her, and I hurt for her. I cannot think of her; I hurt for me.

"You are not here right now."

"No."

Sometimes one must go away, retreat inside oneself.

Forgive me.

In my mind I have this image of perfection; it is a mind-image, not a word image; this is strange. I've always wanted to be an artist; this is the one area that I have not pursued. Why. Na istina, je ne sais pas. Fear.

Since moving to Bulgaria, this sense of searching does not usually come. Sometimes, however, it does. And it is undescribable. I need to talk with my D. I cannot talk with him, not like we used to. Or I can, but...

When I go away, I don't know where I go.

A breath in my ear: "What are you thinking?"