apology the first

it's hard to know what to say about things. sunshine told me the other day of a girl who said she had no interest in doing things she could not write about. there are obvious problems with this (living as performance, being one) but i find myself a little envious of someone who expects that calibre of experience, always.

as one who writes i find myself seriously perturbed by this shortcoming on my part.

for example, i saw a halloween cat this morning running across the street. it was black and bright orange, had a white underbelly, and wore a black studded collar. i was struck by its timeliness (a halloween cat making itself apparent just one day before halloween!), amused by its silly tabby looks. i stopped and leaned on an old gate and watched it lick itself. but that's really all i can say. my problem must be that the experience is sufficient unto itself -- i can't extrapolate broader meaning or harken back to my childhood when there was another odd looking cat and then make a quiet but profound statement about childhood and small animals.

instead, i watch a cat lick itself on the other side of a gate.