meander

Egads, what to type about. So much time, so little thought.

Well, not little thought actually. Maybe too many thoughts, all jostling for attention at the same time, with me so easily distracted most seem to jump out of range just as I try to reach inside my brain to get one out, to make it coalesce into something coherent and sensible.

Busy.

Used to write cats stories:
http://www.flippyscatpage.com/rain.html

They used to tumble out, force their way through my fingers that just had to mash at the keyboard until the story was there, finished, ready to be spell checked,polished, tweaked perhaps just a little, but mostly complete first run (oh how Mr Fogarty my English teacher would have baulked. Dear Mr Fogarty, I *NEVER* did a first draft on *any* of my essays. Ever. It didn't work that way. If I polished too hard, I cracked it. They turned out overworked, hard, stiff, lifeless if I tried a second time. Wish I'd had word processors back then, Mr Fogarty)

But now I don't write cats stories. Mostly because my current two cats are boring and don't' do anything that makes me want to write about them much.

Suki is a waste of protoplasm. All pretty and purry but without a neuron in that pretty little head of hers. Wish I could give her the affection 24/7 she would like - wish I knew a little old lady who wanted to give this neurotic and mind bogglingly stupid - but pretty - kitty all the time in the world, and wouldn't mind so much all the hairballs and the broken items as she continually (spell check wants to make this 'continental') falls off things. I'd let Suki go to a person who could really love and dote on her, but I don't know such a person and i think Pickle would miss her if she left. Cary certainly would.

And Pickle, the zen cat. Nothing phases him, but on the same token, he does not require affection or scritches - he just stoically puts up with being 'attentioned' until such time as he can escape to a safe distance just to watch. And watch he does, making the nightly rounds to ensure we're all OK. He'll spend the night with the sick person, but won't otherwise bless us with his presence, at least, not for long. He doesn't do anything *funny* though, and whats the point of writing just "he did this, he did that'. Not amusing, not interesting.

Miss Shmoggleberry *so* much. Thought I saw him for a moment the other day, out of the corner of my eye, as you do. it was just a grey plastic shopping bag, but for a second it was the right colour, shape and location, and Shmogg had never left. Everything felt right with the world again. Still surprised at how much I miss him, its been 3 years now and still. The pain has passed, but not the missing, and if I think too hard, i can still cry about him. Try not to think too hard, dear, you're at work.

That will do for now. Wondering around in my head can be fun, but mostly its just re-hashing old steps. Maybe I"d like to do a theology/sociology/philosophy/anthropology degree one day. More essays. Hahaha. There you go, Mr Fogarty.