Sensuous

3 April — Saturday

I was walking around the neighborhood this morning and made the mistake of looking in a pet shop window. There was a cardboard box that had once held two dozen bottles of Heinz ketchup. It now held four Siamese kittens, and I fell in love with them.

As a result, I am now the owner of a forty-nine cent philodendron.

The whole thing is so ridiculous. I decided I would never get a plant. But as soon as I realized that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was a kitten, it somehow became all right for me to pass up the kittens and get a plant.

Like feeling justified in putting out your eyes as a reward for having staved off the impulse to commit suicide.

It’s a pretty little plant. It only has about three leaves.

Exactly three leaves. I just went and counted them.

It will get more, though. So said the florist. With the proper care it will grow like crazy. Just water it once a day and keep it where it gets daylight. Doesn’t need direct sunlight but ought to be near a window. So it’s on the sill now and I’m waiting for it to grow all those leaves the man promised me.

I already watered it once today. I don’t know whether or not I was supposed to. In that I don’t know whether or not he had already watered it, and somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call him up and find out.

It shouldn’t be that much trouble to water the thing once a day. I can do it every morning before I leave for work. That way I won’t be in the position ever of having to be home at a certain time to water my plant.

I think I’m taking this thing far too seriously. I really do.

Do your give plants names? I suppose it’s up to me, it being my plant. And no one would ever know that I was a lunatic who named her plant. I could even talk to it if I wanted to.

Anyone who talks to a typewriter is none the crazier for talking to a plant.

I wonder if it’s a male plant or a female plant, or if there’s no difference with philodendrons. I could give it a neutral name. Seems a cop-out, though. Maybe I ought to wait and see how I relate to it, whether I regard it as a boy or a girl.

I suppose I could always call it Mother.

I’m just in the silliest mood, rambling on and on like this. I feel kind of good in a weird way. I went downtown last night intending to go to the concert but decided I didn’t feel like it. Wound up going to a movie. Not like Wednesday’s movies. This was a Bogart revival on Eighth Street. Casablanca and The Petrified Forest. I wonder how many times I’ve seen both of them. Doesn’t matter — they get better each time.

Sort of looked for that coffee house where that boy propositioned me, but couldn’t find it.