“A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” ~ Ernest Hemingway
Cats are hard to photograph, but here’s a good one. Her name is Tessie and she is the one who bit the crap out of me about two months ago. I forgave her on the spot. Here’s why. We both had different agendas, hers to maintain harried freedom and mine to put an end to that freedom. Having slipped out of her cage she was running about the cattery. When I grabbed her she did the natural thing: she bit me. My intricately designed right index fingertip took the hit. I know I’m retreading old material here. It comes because I finally got a nice photo of the culprit, who will now let me pet her again, and the incident itself had such a powerful impact on me. Actually, it mystifies me as to how I have come to make this into a powerfully positive event. I might have to remind myself that this can be done. I also just realized that I used the word “powerful” twice in one paragraph. I’m starting to sound like Gregg Braden, eh? I know Gregg. He’s a good spirit, but I don’t know if he ever got cat bit.
I’m finally equipped with coffee. The morning is nearly cold, temperature down to 44 F. There is a low hum of joy in my heart because of this little taste of autumn. I wanted to capitalize “autumn” but the online style guide said no. I’m forever doing stuff like that when I am writing. I research and sometimes simply take a tangent out for a spin. I’m never disappointed. And I learn new things, some of which I really should have remembered in the first place. So it goes.
The opening quote of today’s post intrigues me. Mr. Hemingway has a point, no doubt. It makes me wonder what kind of world it would be if humans displayed emotional honesty, and I also wonder if Ernest wondered the same thing. His writing has been an inspiration to me yet I find him hard to read. His A Moveable Feast is the only of his books I actually enjoyed. The others I did not finish, but I took note of his style and came out with a feel for his sometimes staccato syntax. Dude could write. The truth is that I have not much studied the classic American writers, except for Mark Twain, and Henry David Thoreau.
I can’t seem to concentrate well this morning. I’ve got some respiratory muck going on but it isn’t enough to knock me down. Maybe I have let little cat sneezes distract me from taking care of my own health, and I admit that I haven’t been doing much to help my own. I’ll own that, and I will contemplate that at the laundromat tomorrow. I actually enjoy the laundromat. Go figure. It is a temple of meditation for me. I can’t explain it. Nor am I kidding about it. I enjoy it. It’s that simple.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?