Category: Words

Imaginary conversation about cats

How do you feel about cats?

Cats? You know how I feel about cats. I hate cats.

Hate is such a strong word.

What did you do?

Do? What do you mean what did I do?

Did you get a fucking cat?

I don’t think a cat would be fucking, necessarily. I mean, one cat? It wouldn’t even be possible for it to..

Did you get a non-fucking cat?

Why would I get a cat? You hate cats.

I’m starting to hate you, too.

Are not. You love me. It doesn’t matter what I do. You can’t help it. Even if I bought a cat, you’d love me. An expensive cat. A fancy Dijon cat. Why are you pretending to bang your head against the wall?

You suck.

I do. That’s one of the reasons you love me.

Incorrigible, you are.

I really am.

So.

So?

The cat.

What cat? There is no cat, Neo.

Oh, good.

But if there was a cat, rhetorically speaking…a black one, with a white Hitler mustache. How would you feel about it?

Bad. I would feel bad.

Why would you feel bad about a rhetorical cat?

None of this even has a point, does it?

Why do you look so discouraged? You keep saying I should talk more. I’m practicing.

To other people. You should talk more to other people.

Other people don’t understand when I talk about imaginary cats.

Rhetorical.

See? You do understand me!

I…oh, God. I did understand that. And stop smiling.

It makes me happy when people understand me. When I’m happy, I smile. You like it when I’m happy, don’t you?

I do.

I didn’t get a cat.

That’s a relief.

I got 2 pairs of shoes instead. Red ones.

Of course you did, because you couldn’t get a cat.

No one understands me like you do, baby.

What did you get me?

Vodka, a bag of grapefruit, and a very nice pair of argyle socks. I accidentally turned all of the grapefruit into juice, so we should probably start drinking it right away. It’s practically an emergency.

You understand me pretty well, too.

You wouldn’t have looked nearly this happy if I’d gotten a cat.

I’d still be pretty happy.

Because I’d still have bought you the vodka. Probably an even better one…

We’ll go with that.

I knew what you meant, George.

I know you did, baby.

Rain, rain

Drops jumping
On the pavement
Rushing down the gutter
Pattering on the roof
Washing away the grime
Washing away tears

From the inside
Watching it fall
I sip another
Cup of coffee
Pulling up my
Hand knit socks
With a stupid cat
On my feet
And a book
In my lap

Rain, rain
I wish we could
Get the sound
And the smell
Without having to
Get soaked
By you
But thank you
for watering
my flowers

Transformational butterfly voodoo bullshit

Caterpillar. Chrysalis. Butterfly
Girl. Woman. Bitch. Crone.
Catalyst. Change. Catharsis
Or something.

I was having an incompetent feeling day for no reason in particular. I did my job well enough. Did some writing that largely sucked appropriately enough for the subject matter. All day, though, this mass of depressing stupid loser energy hung over me like my own personal Addams Family cloud.

At some point, though, don’t you think I should figure out what the fuck it is that I want? You read about living your dream, living your passion, but I haven’t ever really had one.

Well, that was an angry start. I started this a while ago and then left it orphaned because I didn’t feel like dealing with how negative I was feeling, but picked it back up again because I have been thinking about change transformation improvement alteration a lot lately.

As always, change requires some sort of catalyst. It might be something you see, or read. It could be a person or something you want. It could even be something that happens to someone you care about, or something that almost happens. A close call.

But I have never been much of a planned change person. Well. I guess my divorce was planned. Does that count? There was a catalyst, then my brain went into overdrive, and then there was a change.

I have been an emotional fraidy cat for my whole life. Oh, I’ll pick up and move at the drop of a hat. I’ll fuck someone I don’t know or ingest any substance someone offers me that promises to divert me. Go to Burning Man with a total stranger. Move to France with no money and no return ticket. Tell someone what I think in a non-work capacity? No fucking way. Or not very many people anyway.

Telling someone how I feel is far more frightening to me than putting my physical body and well being at risk. Crazy, yes? Crazy enough.

My trustingness thingie was broken long ago. It’s been under repair since 1979, but it’s gradually gotten better over the last few years. Forgiveness will do that.

Of course, there’s also the very frightening reality of change. It can be wonderful or disastrous.

I guess I will find out.
I guess we all do.