Ginger isn’t as pliable, as needy as Zen is. Although Ginger must walk like other cats from place to place I often think of her as floating, or drifting, appearing again on the horizon. Just out of reach. A mirage, even.
Sometimes I will look down from where I sit to find Ginger looking at me. The look has more weight to it; I give it weight. She doesn’t seem particularly curious about my motives, but she observes. She notices.
Tonight Ginger fell asleep near me on the sofa and her paws, all four, and her face too, everything was all at once in action. Twitching, pulsing. Fascinated, I watched her dreams of inhabiting a younger set of bones and tendons. Her back paws curled up as if she tensed to launch. I pictured her on a night-drenched mesa, stalking the scent of lizard.
Writing from: my study. Listening to: “Incandescent” by Astronoid.
It’s always cat o’clock when I get home from work.
Writing from: my study. Listening to: the creaks and groans of this old house.
Today FunkyPlaid and I hung out with Ginger the Cat, keeping her company while also keeping cool during this nasty little heatwave. She allowed me to snap this photo.
We also test-drove some cars (not with Ginger). The test-driving was fun, but the rest of it just sucked. I cannot wait until the whole car-buying process can be done online. Come on, future.
Writing from: my stuffy study. Listening to: “Palo Alto” by Southern Shores.
Remember when Zen kept waking me up at ridiculous hours with her yowling?
FunkyPlaid comes home, and she stops.
Me too, kid. Me too.
Writing from: my quiet study. Listening to: “Ceiling Gazing” by Mark Kozelek.
Sometimes when Zen wakes me up seven minutes before my alarm goes off, I forget. I forget this nineteen-year history between us and how she has always confounded me in these bleary early-morning moments. When she was younger, there was less yowling, but she still stalked the edges of my sleep, an unwary perimeter, desultorily guarding one side or the other. It has never been clear.
Zen isn’t an affectionate cat, or at least her “capricious” process tends to have priority over her “demonstrative” one.
But then on a rare occasion she yowls to be picked up and she snuggles me, proper snuggles with snout digging into my arm and purrs loud enough to jostle the fabric of my sweatshirt. And I think: okay, I get you.
Writing from: my snuggly study. Listening to: “Touch” by Holy Other.