the cats don’t know

the cats don’t know what to do with me

i saw my bean counter guy at the café today and got the word on the new release, soon to be roasted. i’m not a big fan of ethiopian so i discarded the news while enjoying the curious taste of the organic peru being served. i bought a cup of that. i like this café because here it’s presumed you are a human being and worth talking to, which may not go for much in other cultures but trust me, here in corporate america there are plenty of spaces where no one will talk to you and you will draw suspicion if you try and be friendly. i got a croissant, went home and fried an egg with bacon to put inside it. i burnt the bacon but not all of it. my coffee got cold so i took the opportunity to reheat it on the stove with some rice milk and dark chocolate, swiss miss. i’m pretty sure i planned it that way. meanwhile my car was being ticketed across the street without my knowledge. i was enjoying my mocha while sitting on my couch in the morning light, a furry throw pillow supporting my lower back and the coffee table setup perfectly before me to hold my laptop and allow me an ideal position to work on my novel, which i did for a half hour or more before i spilled my coffee on my new faux oriental rug, cursing under my breath and running for a rag and some water. the cats don’t know what to do with me. now i owe the city of Sacramento fifty-two bucks for street cleaning obstruction, and the driver’s side tire keeps deflating on me so it will have to be replaced. all these setbacks broke the fragile beauty of my writing bubble, so i took a nap. i found myself irritable in a meeting at noon. at least i showed up. i perked up a little after meeting a few new friends to discuss fresh applications of narrative therapy, not a widely embraced modality but we wish it was. i guess it all started in australia, too, which makes me smile. damn, i could use a vacation down under or enveloped in the mountain folds of new zealand. i think i even have friends there. too bad my passport’s expired and i can’t afford to travel. honestly i’m just trying to keep my microcosm together and live an honorable life and keep my bubbles sparkling whole in the air.

writing process

character sketches 

the personality how do we bring fullness to the personality in words. words are limiting but not as limiting as one might think. anyone who is well read would know that. maybe we limit ourselves by thinking about how limited we are. the personality. unearthing character traits of course, disposition, moodiness, relation to self and society. then of course the motivations, what gets the character out of bed in the morning (presuming they get out of bed at all, in some famous works, characters hardly ever get out of bed). personality will be more than all that, there are other elements. how does a character walk and talk, how do they think? do they touch upon repetitive thoughts and actions? well, everyone does. rituals. what about nature and nurture? are they defined by a microcosm? trapped there? how does the macrocosm feel about all that. freedom, mobility, immobility, inaction. mental health or illness. where’s the spirit in all of that. oh! words are great for that, capturing spirit over time. meaning pages. you can paint a spirit over the course of a novella or novel for sure. or even in a poem if you’re really good.

i is for ism

There were years gone by questioning nothing. Not even all the dirty ugly predicated isms in plain sight.

Kids who grow up in any kinda consistent environment, no matter the level of dysfunction, ascribe their acceptance upon it. As did i.

Then came barreling upon me, an expansiveness i had never known. I wanted to stay tight. Small. To know your name when i saw you in the streets. For you to know mine.

To keep our hard earned reps.
Our shared histories.

The disturbance in my atmosphere saw me smaller, lesser known, more fearful, lesser understood anymore.

I could hide in the laundry bed of a thousand other passerbys. No one but my mom might miss me.

I might not even miss me, myself.

For who was i formed out of icy isms in a blind microcosmic state of purified disaster?