I enjoy hanging out at home with the cat. The cat loves it too, but much like me, she would never admit that she loves something. It’s clear though that we hate each other the least.
My cat and my fellow stick figure drawing practitioner Raili inspired me to another attempted art today. It shows the deep existentialist thoughts of my cat, who takes a looong time deciding whether to pee or not to pee, and when she goes for it, she does so with her tail hanging out from the litterbox.
The news of spring have been grossly exaggerated. We’ve had howling wind, horizontal sleet and slush floods these days. When I daringly ventured out to take rubbish to the bin, I couldn’t decide which cause of death was most likely to meet me: being blown away, pierced by the whirling hail or drowning in a slush pool? Much to my surprise, I survived more or less intact.
The sharp wind gusts are what intrigues me the most. They make my windows shake in their frames and the whole house crackles like it’s giving up on its structural integrity. I feel moderately safe and peculiarly set out from the rest of the human race in my ivory tower, aka the top floor of a brick building. Ginsberg’s Howl poem constantly haunts me:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking
for an angry fix.
The looking for an angry fix is a great fit for the Saturday night mood, when the housing estate teems with drunk people trying to find either more booze or their building door. Their drunken cries are like those of seagulls and are carried all around the place by the wind. I’m feeling poetic. I might go and rewrite Howl with a housing scheme setting.
As with most things, I have a love and hate relationship with routine. I like to claim that I’m unpredictable, but I’m so transparent that even my cat, who is known to be cute but dumb, sees me through.
The cat shares my predicament. I’m sure she is convinced that she’s being smart always when she makes a surprise jump on me from one of her three constant hiding places: behind the bathroom door, behind the fridge and behind the bed.
My morning routine is particularly fixed. The other day I went to pee before making my coffee, which is an utterly wrong order, and it threw me out of balance for the rest of the day. I couldn’t remember what the next item on the morning to-do list was.
Unlike me, the cat proved to be capable of learning new routines. I’ve been getting up in the middle of the night the last week for my commute, and the cat learned that when my alarm rings, it means I’m abandoning her. Today I took a little power nap, and so as not to get too powerful by sleeping until tomorrow, I set my alarm. When it rang, it set the cat into a hysterical fit because she thought I was going away. I wasn’t.
I’m rather surprised by the cat’s lack of appreciation of my absence, during which she is free to chew power cords, scratch the door insulation and mess with the blinds. I suspect she isn’t using her freedom wisely. On the note of cats and morning routines, below is a visual presentation of the routines I share with my cat. The sharing is partly involuntary on my part, but the cat never asks.
I spent the entire Sunday making myself presentable for my first appearance at my web development requalification course the next day. I painted my nails (including toes so they look nice in the snow boots), plucked my eyebrows (those which choose to grow elsewhere than in the traditional eyebrow region), applied and unapplied warpaint (aka facial mask) and also ironed my clothes. In the latter I was heavily assisted by the cat—see illustration. I only have one cat, but, like god, she’s omnipresent.
Such daylong care seems excessive, but I like to be presentable when, normally once a week, I dare go out among people. For what I know, I could be raped or run over by a car (tram, train, you name it), and I wish to make a good first as well as last impression. I’d hate to be embarrassed for myself when my disembodied soul (that is, if I had one) watches my remains on the slab, hovering over the pathologist’s snack (I imagine pathologists snack while they work, and I should stop watching crime TV).
I’ve done my share of blogging awards and abandoned them when the attractiveness of the concept wore off for me. Today, though, I was nominated for what is not an ordinary award but a personalised challenge. It’s called the Dedicated Blogger Award, kindly passed on to me by my much appreciated blogging friend Soul Gifts. Before I get any more cheesy, I say a huge thank you (cheesy) and present my completed task: I was asked to produce a stick drawing!
I’m still laughing at the idea that I was drawing on demand. I mean, look at my picture… Pathetic, isn’t it. I feel the need to explain what the picture attempts to represent, in case there is a confusion arising from my lack of mimetic skills. It’s me accepting this award while wearing an evening gown and giving an acceptance speech. The thing emitting rays in the top left corner isn’t a flying saucer but a spotlight. The small thing on the right is my cat. She doesn’t give a meow.
I have abs. They can be neither seen nor felt, but now I know I have them, hiding in the jelly of my belly. I know because I pulled a muscle in my stomach when practising yoga. You’d be surprised that I can effectively cripple myself even when doing something as harmless as yoga.
Currently I’m on Yoga with Adriene, who is constantly so super excited that I sometimes succumb to the delusion that I can do it because I got it, as she mistakenly claims. As a revenge, I turned Adriene into a stick figure. I added myself and the cat, who is my natural extension.
In my graphic illustrations, notice Adriene’s flawless poses contrasted to my personalised versions of them. Also notice how thin Adriene is. In the interest of self-flagellation, I drew myself with a side boob, a bulging belly and an enormous butt. Also, obviously, I can’t draw.