I’ve struggled these last months to say anything of any interest – to myself, much less to anyone else – and as one can see by tracking the entries to this blog, I’ve not enjoyed much sense. I’ve started this YotP7 entry at least three times now, gone almost all the way to the end, only to throw it all away as empty twaddle. So I’ve finally decided fuck it (it’s my blog and I get to say that), I’m just going to talk about my cats. I don’t expect there to be any redeeming philosophical content here, though I don’t preclude the possibility. (Writing is, after all, a creative activity, and creation takes on a life of its own.)
Bluesy and Jazzy as Kittens.
Before proceeding, one caveat that any cat person will readily understand: talking about “my” cats can be a little problematic, since the suggestion of possession or ownership also suggests a sharply drawn line. A person I’m connected to on Twitter periodically shares photos of “Not My Cat”, a young brown tabby that continues to walk into his home and help itself to food, shelter, napping places, and companionship. My situation is not quite so extreme, but it still merits making, or at least being alert to, a distinction.