Open Writing

Seems as if one thing that is developing as a result of all the new communication tools is the habit of writing down everything that passes through your head. As if it were a pearl of wisdom that must be saved, and disseminated to as many worldlings as possible, before it is irretrievably lost and forgotten.

Man, I’m glad I never picked up that habit. I can embarrass myself enough, even going on record with my third or fourth edit. I am frequently glad that I at least have the chance to edit things before I send them out.

I’ve had a lifelong problem with foot-in-mouth disease, but the verbal is not usually preserved for your grandchildren’s amusement.

I have known many people who have suffered uncountable instances of drop-through-the-floor embarrassment when fond Mother hauls out the old family album, accompanied by her file of keepsakes, proudly presented to her when your age was measured in single digits.

But these are blogs, magnanimously bestowed upon the world, by teenagers or even those old enough to know better, explaining a simple and fool-proof way to repair our abused spaceship and all its passengers, present and to come. Some even come with sound, stolen from an appropriate and highly regarded source.

Just think. All this can be readily saved, and probably is being archived by appropriate functionaries of governments around the world, along with college admissions people, and so on. It’s not impossible that it might even be read by your own Grandpa. Of course the great thinker already has it properly hoarded to use in his or her resumé forever.

Do you suppose George Washington or Ben Franklin or any of those other old guys would have been proud of their sophomoric pronouncements when they were 50? Probably not.

A monograph by Abe Lincoln of his repertoire of jokes and funny stories might have gone over well, if enough of his contemporaries could read.

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Cats are strange

Our cat is about as old as the rest of us. She has lived here since she was dumped as a pregnant kitten, so this is really the only place and family she knows. She often hops on my lap for a petting session, and commonly sleeps at least part of a night on my bed.

But there are times when, often for no discernible reason, she becomes a completely wild cat, who refuses to be touched or petted, will not come in, regardless of weather, and won’t even eat unless we put her food out on the porch and leave her to it.

Last week she was into her wildcat phase. We finally did coax her in, but she then stood out in the middle of the room, feet braced, fur up, and yowled two or three loud, wild-cat sound screeches. Then she disappeared somewhere. For more than a day. Eventually she came out, screeched at us again, and disappeared in another direction. I put out her meal in her dish, on the kitchen table, where we all understand cats are not allowed. But we also understand that anything cat-edible will disappear overnight from that location.

Thursday morning, she appeared from nowhere while Sox and I were getting ready for our morning walk. She lined up at the kitchen door as we got ready to go. I let her out with us; she came back in with us, had breakfast with us, and went into the living room for a wash and snooze on her favorite chair. All back to old domestic house cat now. I think she may have cat dementia. But she’s always been peculiar.