Tag: Challenge

Conversations with my cat – 44

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This is Chester.  I’ve just dropped the bombshell we’re thinking of getting a dog.

So, the first response from him:  Well, the last dog didn’t turn out so well, did it?

We didn’t tell him what happened to the dog, but maybe he’s psychic.

Or is that psycho?

Anyway, the last dog we had moved to my son’s place when he moved, and shortly after, broke his hip and had to be put down.

So I say, that dog moved when my son left.  I don’t have any more sons living in, so that won’t be a problem.

It’s going to be a mistake.

Oh, how?

You know they all start out like soft furry balls, like cat’s I’ll admit, but then they grow up, and up, and up, and up.  And eat you out of house and home.  Not like us lovable cats, we stay small furry balls, and don’t eat all that much.

No, you’re just fussy, and it’s like hell on earth getting you to eat.

Then stop buying the cheap stuff.

Cheap?  Cheap?  That last lot of food cost an arm and a leg.  At least with a dog, it will eat anything, including scraps from the table.

He gives me that condescending look reserved for people who think they own or know cats.

As you wish, my Lord.

Then he walks off, head in the air and tail swishing in annoyance.

What did it mean, “Being ‘undead’ isn’t being alive”

I remember one day many many years ago seeing a piece of graffiti in a railway tunnel:  “Being undead isn’t being alive”.

It was the ’70s right after a turbulent ’60s where everything changed, where only the young, as I was at the time, didn’t recognise what had changed.

Of course, this is the problem down through the generations, where the older generation witness the changes, too fast, too sudden, too radical, and the young, they adopt them without thinking.

And that piece of graffiti, it was more than likely a cry for help that would never come.

After all, the older generation never knew what had happened, and there was no means of coping.  Words were not enough, and it was the beginning of a breakdown in discipline, and a lot more that didn’t manifest itself for a generation.

But that sign lived on, through the ’80s and the ’90s.  I first saw it as a child, it was still there when I was going to and from work on the train.  It made me wonder often during those years what the graffitist was trying to tell the world.

Being undead?  What sort of expression is that?

I think he or she was alluding to the fact that being alive was more than just drawing breath, eating and sleeping.

Those early years of youthful emancipation brought on all sorts of maladies, and drugs.  We were never warned about them, not like they do now in schools, and it seemed everyone knew someone who knew where to get them.

I never tried them.  Not for the usual reasons, it was just I never found myself in a situation where I could get them, or try them to see what all the fuss was about.

Perhaps I should be glad it worked out that way.

Of course, I would never find out what the graffitist meant, but I suspect it could have been one of those moments of rare clarity, in a drug-induced haze, or the depths of despair from not having had the next ‘fix’.

Or was it something simple, like he or she had just broken up with a long-term partner, that painful time when one or other calls it quits? Or that time after an argument with one of your parents, or a best friend, and it seemed there was no path back?  Or is it like that feeling of being betrayed, that awful feeling when you discover your partner is cheating on you, and inevitably everyone else knew, but you’re the last to find out?

No, the message wasn’t that simple, especially because of the psychedelic manner in which it was presented on that wall, I doubt the perpetrator had an artistic talent they wanted to show off.  That artistic bent was fuelled by something else, perhaps a dream or a vision.

Or, instead, there was no real reason, and it was the culmination of having the freedom you always wanted, and yet be left with an emptiness that cannot be filled no matter how many drugs you take.  Was that why so many people back then died from an overdose?

I’ll never know who it was that put that sign on the wall, whether they lived or died, or whether they found what they were looking for.  Nor will I ever know what it was like to be in their shoes.

Perhaps I was one of the lucky people, who knows?

 

 

 

Conversations with my cat – 43

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This is Chester, he’s just reminded me that it is International Cat Day.

I ask, are you really an international cat, because you live here, and haven’t travelled anywhere.

A studious glance at me, then at a map of the word, he then tells me I haven’t taken him anywhere, but he’s been with me in spirit.

Yes, and while I’m away, well, you know how it goes…

Again apparently that was my fault, I didn’t leave strict instructions on what he could or could not do.

I thought we’d set those boundaries a long time ago.

I’m old, is the quick retort,  Memory is failing.  I’m lucky if I can remember what I was doing yesterday.  You’ll have to remind me.

Every morning.

And even then I might still have trouble remembering.

Anyway, don’t you humans have a saying, respect your elders?

OK.  Now we’re back on the age thing.  And, by the way, I don’t think my granddaughter gave you permission to sleep on her pillow.

Seems it’s my turn to eave in a huff!

International cat day?????

 

Where is the good news?

I’ve spent the last few hours scouring the papers and the internet, looking for the good news.

The sad fact is, there is none.

But for fiction writers, it is manna from heaven!

It seems there are hundreds of people dying needlessly because guns don’t kill people, people kill people.  It’s an interesting theory, one that will no doubt fuel debate for all eternity, and still, nothing will be done.  Not while armaments are a large part of the American economy.  Every time there’s a mass shooting, gun sales rocket.

Just saying.

There are floods, and there are famines, and these are caused not by mother nature but people.  People seem to be responsible for everything bad that happens.  Of course, people caused the changes in our climate that is fuelling all these problems, but …

All of this is drowning out the fact that earth has been suffering these problems in the past, a long way into the past, and it is part of the evolutionary cycle.  Floods happen, famines happen, the sea gets warmer, the ice cap melts, we’ve been there and done that before.  The only difference, people weren’t there to record or observe it, so there wasn’t going to be a problem when the sea rises two or three metres.

Perhaps trying to get that ultimate sea view wasn’t the best of ideas.

Then there’s trouble of a different sort.

We’re heading for armageddon in the middle east, one way or another, and everyone is skirting the battleground.  Political posturing, as well as appeasement, has been going on for years, but it can only last for so long before someone does something stupid, and lights the fuse.

If that fuse gets lit, then we won’t have to worry about climate change or gun control.  A far more insidious death and destruction of civilization will await us.

Doom and gloom it is.  The newspapers, the political commentators, the politicians, the megalomaniacs, everyone need to take a step back.  Leaders of the larger nations of this world should be setting an example, not try to see who can make the most noise.  You have to remember that old, but very relevant saying, empty vessels make the most noise.

People with any sort of influence should be calling for detente, not push their own ideals or try to make money selling papers, magazines, or air time.  They should be trying to address the issues and make people feel safe, not add fuel to the fire of insecurity, whipping up hysteria against countries, religions and minorities.

Still not good news…

Then there is a looming trade war.  But here’s the thing.  If America doesn’t want to trade with China, there’s a whole lot of other countries that do.

OK, so there’s the good news, for some.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep looking for the good news.  There has to be some, somewhere.

 

 

 

Conversations with my cat – 42

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This is Chester.  Somedays, like today, he is an accomplice.

In what, you may ask.

I got a DM (a direct mail in Twitter) from someone who wants to ask a few questions and write a little piece about me in their blog.

Why? Chester asks.  He’s been sitting beside me staring at the same screen I have, and it finally got the better of him.

They asked I replied.

But what about the last person who tried to get simple answers to simple questions?

I was in a frivolous mood, I tell him.

That’s most days, isn’t it?  Unless, of course, you’ve dozed off after a long night trying to get words on theoretical paper.

OK, so he’s trying to annoy me.  It’s working.

The first question, tell us a little about yourself.

So, what do I say?  Suave and sophisticated.

A sidelong look from an obviously amused cat.  I can tell by the expression on his face.

And then the words, don’t use words of more than two syllables, and worse, use words you don’t know the meaning of.

That’s why I have a thesaurus and dictionary on the computer.

He lets that pass.

So I have been around long enough to have many experiences, go to many places, see many people, and do stuff.

Do stuff?  What the hell is ‘stuff’?

You know, stuff.  Looking at stuff, eating stuff, sitting on stuff.

Groan.

He gets up, gives me that pitiful look of disdain, and leaves.

I shrug.  Maybe tomorrow, when he’s in a better mood.

 

 

Past conversations with my cat – 5

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This is Chester.  He is contemplating the mess on the floor.

I’ve asked him many times to stop unraveling the extension cords, or to play with it as it it was a ball of string.

I’m not sure he understands the implications of playing with electrical wires.

Yet.

He is recovering from the visit by our grand children.

Sometimes, when they’re very quiet, he assumes they have gone.  He comes down to see what’s for dinner, or if there are any ‘snacks’.

Then, suddenly he realizes they have not gone, and panic sets in.

Sometimes he gets away.

Sometimes he is trapped, and forced to take large doses of child affection.

Yesterday, it was very close.

 

In a word: Right

Am I right?  Or is that correct?

In the moral sense, or in answering a question?

Do I have a right to …

As an entitlement?

Maybe

But right means generally to be correct, but the word itself can be used, like many others in a variety of ways

Such as, do we have any rights any more, since the government is slowly shutting down our freedoms, and, you guessed it, rights.

What about a right angle, we know this as being an angle of 90 degrees

How about I right a wrong, returning a bad situation to a good one?

Are you left-handed or right-handed?

Are you one of those people who can’t tell their left from their right?

And who was it that decided what was your left or your right, ever thought about that?  I didn’t until just now.  Good luck finding an answer on Google.

And how many times have you wished you were in the right place at the right time???

Then, of course, if English is a second language, how about confusing right with write.

Means something quite different, doesn’t it?

How about rite?  Yes, I guess if we were in the habit of chopping chicken heads off and dancing around a fire, that might be its meaning,

But…

It too has a lot of different meanings

Are you confused yet?

What would you ask a writer?

I’ve been sitting at this desk staring at the screen thinking of what to write that might interest other people.

Seems I’m not very good at it.

So I moved seats, and sit opposite the writer’s chair, taking a good long hard look at the person, the so-called writer, and conjuring up in my mind, if I was someone I’d just dragged in off the street, what would I ask?

That thought hadn’t occurred to me before, except at some time or other I might have to give an interview.

And as for being ‘dragged off the street’, most of us walk down the street trying to avoid everyone else and anything bad that might happen.

But I’m here now, so for a free cup of tea and a Doubletree cookie, I consider myself available to play the part.

Question 1:  Why on earth would you want to write when there are a billion other books out there?  Seems a complete waste of time to me.

[Answer] Good point, most days when I get out of bed or rather stare at the ceiling from under the covers, I wonder why I bother to get up.

OK, that’s the borderline manic depressive speaking, and most likely suffering from a hangover, trying to get those last 1,000 words for the day done.

Question 2: You write when you’re drunk?  That must make a lot of sense, not!

This person has found me out in two questions.

[Answer] No, a little Scotch helps to oil the wheels in the mind.

Question 3:  What do you do for inspiration?

[Answer] Thinking up new and novel ways of killing off people, I often drag people in off the street to ask me questions about myself, then kill them.  You know, it’s the old story, if I tell you I’ll have to kill you?  No, sorry, didn’t mean that.  I haven’t a mean bone in my body.  Inspiration you say?

I look around.

So does the inquisitor.  There is seven floor to ceiling bookcases full of my favorite authors, about 2,000 or so books, aside from the reference library that is mostly in e-book format which runs to about 10,000.

Question 4:  You read all of these?

[Picks up a copy of ‘Kill Me If You Can’ by James Patterson]  This one.

I nod yes.  I have read most of them.  I tell him writers must read.  Someone told me that a long time ago.  Not only thrillers and crime, but the classics.  I found War and Peace heavy going, but not so much as Madame Bovary, or Vanity Fair.

You can ask one more question.

Question 5:  Can I borrow this book [James Patterson]

As always the answer is yes.  I encourage people to read.  It doesn’t have to be my work.  It would be nice but I’m realistic enough to know there are a billion other books out there I have to compete with.

Thank God that’s over!

 

 

Past conversations with my cat – 4

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This is Chester.  Hiding.

He is the proverbial ‘scaredy cat’.

He is in hiding, buried at the back of the shelving in our walk in robe, one of the few places he thinks the grand children don’t know about.

Think again, Chester!

He pays scant regard to the fact he moults hair all over our clothes.

Efforts to fill the hole have been met with stiff resistance, the ‘blockage’ finding its way to the floor.

A bit like the blankets he doesn’t like on his bed.

Chester is 16 years old.  He has had a tumultuous relationship with my grand children, who, at first, wanted to terrorize him, and now, older and wiser, want to make friends with him.

Sorry, no can do.  You had your chance.

But …

He’s warming to the 12 year old.  Perhaps because she is as tall as us, he is confused.

Her efforts to get him to sleep on the end of her bed have failed.

Perhaps we should switch beds, and I might win that battle after all.

 

 

How much time do we waste simply waiting?

Have you ever wondered how much of your life you have spent

a) waiting for a doctor’s surgery or hospital appointment, and

b) waiting at the end of the phone to reach customer service or a public servant

c) waiting at traffic lights

d) waiting for busses, trains, or ferries that seem to be always running late

In the first instance, I have had a lot of recent experience with injured children and spouse, and, more recently myself.

What bothers me is that they give you a time and place and issue all the threats around the place if you don’t turn up on time, but it seems to be perfectly ok if they are late.

It could be for some perfectly logical reason but most of the time they don’t tell you why they’re running late, and sometimes don’t even apologize.

Then there are the chairs they make you sit in, obviously specially designed so you do not get comfortable, especially in hospitals.

But the most infuriating aspect?  Just how small the waiting room is and how often it is overcrowded with people also waiting to see a doctor.

They ask if we remain respectful but after an hour and a half in those chairs and not treating us with that same respect they ask for, I’m surprised I have only witnessed one case of the angry patient.

In the second instance, there are two circumstances I take issue with.

The first is where you have to select from an automated phone menu and what you want isn’t one of the menu items and there’s no catch-all just disconnection, and

After waiting patiently on the line for up to thirty minutes or more you hear the connection, you think you are about to get to an agent and the call disconnects.

That is only one step removed from being connected … back at the selection menu and then sent to the back of the queue.

I’m sorry, but this technology is no advancement but I doubt if we will get back to the ‘old days’.

Of course, there is that other major advancement in telephone answering technology, voice recognition.  I’ve been on the end of it, and quite frankly, it just doesn’t understand me.

Odd, I Know, because I speak very good English with no accent.  Perhaps that’s the problem.

I can’t wait for the first humanoid robots.  I hope they can understand me better than the inhuman phones do!