he coulda died

 journal  3 Responses »
Nov 162007
 

Meet Max: couch-goitre:

couchgoitre.jpg

The other day we had builders around, to (finally) start in on repairing the damage from the June 8 not-a-cyclone. Max did not cope well with the strange men trafficking in bangs and clatters. He had to find a secure place to hide — hence, under the couch throw.

This is how he used to hide from the girl-cat, back when she was still sufficiently bigger than him that she could kill him, and seemed hellbent on trying.

Unfortunately, I broke the spell of the couch-throw by lifting it up to take a photo:

couchgoitre2.jpg

(What? There is no other news. Not today. Move along, nothing to see here.)

i relent, i repent, the kitteh is supreme

 journal, pre-crash  4 Responses »
Aug 282007
 

max-nov06.jpg

This is Max. He's hungry.

Don't be fooled by the apparent lassitude. He's a ninja. Any attempt to approach the kitchen must be done in company of Max. Any attempt to use the chopping board and knives invariably produces the heavy-lidded gaze and tail-twitching behaviour designed to induce teeny birdies to come down and play… Any attempt to ignore him while cutting up meat results in Max using my leg as a climbing post. (Luckily, I mostly wear jeans, and he's learnt, through prodigious applications of water spray, to play gentle.)

Well, this weekend, I relented. I did the unthinkable, and provided a full bowl of dry food. An unemptiable bowl of dry food. Max can snack at will. Max is no longer entirely dependent upon me for meals. (Max's expression as I ladled scoop after scoop of dry food into this enormous bowl was a study of excitement turning to slow-dawning horror.)

Maximus Stomachus has spent the past 36 hours gorging snacking. In between snacks, he trudges around the house with a mournful air, a fierce craving for water, and a distended stomach. Maximus Stomachus is not a quick learner.

I, however, have now had two entire nights of uninterrupted sleep. I am delirious, I am drunk, with sleep. I am ridiculously enthusiastic over trivial matters. I am hoping Maximus Gluttonus learns not to gorge so that this arrangement can continue, and I can sleep the blessed sleep of those who have not procreated.

if you're looking for an unmarked place…

 journal, pre-crash  6 Responses »
Aug 192007
 

Well, there's a week I am more than glad to leave in my wake. Coffins should be longer than 60cm. Much, much longer. Also, inquests may provide closure, but only in a world where perfect closure is possible, which this is not.

Here's to next week being more fun to live through.

To round the week off with something humorous, my cat staged a violent attack on the lucky bamboo plant. At midnight (which is always a most hilarious time, I find). The bamboo lived up to its name and survived; its vase was not so lucky. Which, I must say, makes me wonder: if the lucky bamboo is supposed to provide me and my house with good feng shui propoerties, but its good feng shui field doesn't even extend out so far as its vase, what the hell kind of rip-off scheme is this? I could walk around with lucky bamboo pinned to me, or growing in my hair perhaps (can't get closer than that!), but … you know. Might look a bit weird. Probably violates the dress code of all the fancy places.

I have repotted the lucky bamboo. Clearly, despite being dubious about the alleged luckiness field, I am still fearful of any bad-luck field which might result from giving up on the lucky bamboo. Besides, it's the only plant I've ever managed to not only not kill, but keep kinda green.

I have also armed myself with a spray bottle, to protect the lucky bamboo against future hate play crimes. A friend recommended a solution three parts white wine vinegar to one part water as most effective, since the cat would hate getting wet and would then also hate the taste of cleaning himself. Double punishment to drive home the point. I went with only water, however. You see, much as I like my cat, I'm well aware of the fact that no one will ever accuse him of higher intellect. If it doesn't happen at the same nanosecond, it's not connected. All he will connect the vinegar taste to is cleaning himself, and I don't want to punish him for being clean. Then I'd have a filthy cat who's naughty.

I always maintained if it was painful to be stupid, we'd have a lot less stupidity in the world. Turns out, as my cat has taught me, it is painful — but only for those around the stupid. We should institute a procedure whereby forehead-smacks are mandatory when one is displaying stupidity. It should cut down on a lot of troubles, not to mention pent frustrations.

Also, Doctor Who? Please, please tell me this Family of Blood malarky is more than just a convenient way for the writers to strand the Doctor in early 20th century Britain and have him fall in love with a human. Who isn't Martha — cue whine from Martha. Because I'm quite tired of the Doctor / love story being all this and the last series were about. Less Britain, please, and more action — and please, stop already wtih the lovesick companion. I was looking forward to the introduction of Martha, in the hopes we would see the end of pining. Apparently, no luck there. Rose at least had an entire season to be all chutzpah before she turned into sappy clingy jealous icky girly girl. Martha didn't even get an entire episode before she started on with the clinging and the whinging. Don't get me wrong, romantic subplots are fine. But this is Doctor Who! There's aliens to be vanquished, for crying out loud! Keep it as a subplot, kthxbai.

if you're looking for content, this ain't it

 journal, shadow queen  2 Responses »
Sep 212006
 

There is a cupboard where we keep all the cat toys. (There are a lot of cat toys. Mostly they are feathers and scraps of wool and ping pong balls. Some are more elaborate, like the weasel that came on the "weasel on a (motorised) ball" toy – the cats hate the ball, but the weasel alone is good for killing, apparently. And all the toys live in a cupboard with one of those magnetic "locks".) My cat likes to play more than any other creature in the house, and as a consequence he's always been happy to entertain himself when all others drop away from the game. And as a consequence of that, he knows how to open the toy cupboard and fish out whatever toy happens to take his fancy. Tonight it's the weasel, although I doubt that will be the only toy pulled out by night's end. It's a pity he hasn't twigged to the whole putting your toys back in the cupboard after you've finished with them schtick.

In other news, the last thing I want to do tonight is write. This is because I'm tired. This is also because I'm a little stuck, plot-wise, and uncertain just exactly what the climax and denouement will be. This is disconcerting to say the least. The only thing that will make me write tonight? Is the knowledge that not writing doesn't take me any closer to fixing that little problem. Blerk.

the sad and sorry tale of the satchel-hunt

 journal  4 Responses »
Sep 042006
 

The cat is currently tearing around the house in an attempt to communicate just how hungry he really is. Tearing around involves lots of wild cornering, tearing up tufts of carpet if the corner is carpeted, sliding waaaaay out of control and banging into walls if the floor is lino or tiles, jumping on top of any available surface and knocking whatever already occupies that surface to the floor, and generally looking for trouble. Or smooth shiny tabletops with tablecloths that can be decimated. Newspapers also lurk dangerously and must be kept in line. There are also, and this is something I never realised before he came to protect us, extremely dangerous spots on the floor. I'm not sure what, exactly, qualifies these spots as dangerous, since they don't look any different from other parts of the floor that I can tell. But no doubt the cat knows best.

It is just possible the cat is a brat.

In other news, I have been hunting for a satchel, a nice casual satchel of canvas or denim (none of these fancy leathers or nylons, thanks) for, oh, a year and a half now. So far, no luck. Now, I don't exactly live in a fashion capital, and I never get out to the independent markets (mostly because, well, we don't really have any in this city), so I've been largely resigned to the fact that I will never find a satchel I like. But my brother (who is a most fashionable young man) got it into his head that he wanted a satchel, went out looking that morning, and found the perfect bag. And promptly bought the last one available. Honestly. I know I'm paranoid and all, but this is just offensive.

In other news again, my email is down. Completely kaput. My email provider is working hard to get things up and running again, but in the meantime, don't be offended if I don't reply to your email. I'm good, but I'm still working on those psychic powers.

i already have a plan — i'm waiting for my real life to begin

 journal, pre-crash, shadow queen  4 Responses »
Jun 042006
 

First, a kjitten update — Max and Hakuna are six months old now. Can you tell they're brothers? "Little" Max is now 4kg, and I think it's the densest 4kg I've ever owned.

Today's word-rep would be about the sparring crows. Did you know men in black tunics practicing their swordplay (or whatever weapon I decide to give them later) look like sparring crows? Let me tell you about the crows sparring in the courtyard, just one more time. I'd blame this word-rep-fest on writing by hand late at night, but I have a feeling those particular words were from this morning's effort. So I can't. Oops.

On the upside, I did manage to find my protag's voice today. She's had a hard first chapter, what with everyone she knows being massacred, so for the scenes following all that action, all I could get out of her was gibbering shock. (And word/phrase repetition. Natch.) But today she started doing stuff, thankfully, and she started getting snarky in her dialogue. Colour me immensely relieved.

and it's pushing me aside, see it stretch on forever

 journal, pre-crash, shadow queen  2 Responses »
May 292006
 

Max woke me this morning staaaaahrving and demanding breakfast. (For reference, it was 7:20. I normally feed him at 7:00. Clearly, he was suffering.) I staggered upright and upstairs and discovered, lo and behold, he'd actually already been fed a hearty meal. 'S just that he thought it wasn't quite enough, and maybe I could rectify that. I didn't, but as a peace offering I let him eat the dregs of my breakfast (VitaBrits). He then finished off the other cat's breakfast. (She had started it earlier but, what with him making noises like slapping wet fish on soggy sponges somewhere below her [he's a noisy eater], she couldn't possibly keep on.) So, three breakfasts. I spent the morning nursing one very dense kitten. Whose head was daubed with VitaBrit mush.

And today there was progress on the writing. Real progress, even though the wordcount was not phenomenal. Because, as Greg points out, the count isn't everything. Thinking counts1. Today, to break the rut I've been in on the stuckened stories, I went back to one of my Clarion stories. My week six story, to be precise, the one about the shedding. It's been sitting on my hard-drive, comments entered in, and a third of it revised, since January. (Well, since February last year, technically; although I don't know when I got all the comments entered. That stuff takes forever.) Because it needed one or two new scenes, and I could come up with snippets of them but I couldn't get any further. Today I figured out how to shoehorn one of the new scenes in to the current arc, and so I am happy 8)

Things rise and fall for no reason. And what a great opportunity that is! You can start writing again at any minute.

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

  1. All of my Clarion teachers would like me to add the qualifier as long as it leads to writing. Natch. [↩]

random observations

 journal  6 Responses »
May 072006
 

The kitten has taken to dragging his kill home to me. This means the floor around my desk, where I'm usually to be found, is littered with his offerings. So far, he's "killed" a blanket, my brother's hooded jacket, a toy mouse, a bright yellow stuffed dog wearing a christmas hat, a paper bag, a plastic bag, a paper envelope, a swizzle bird, and a neon pink snuggle pillow. (I'm tormented by thoughts of the day the snuggle pillow eventually disgorges its polystyrene beans.)

It also means that, when he crawls into bed of a night, sometime around midnight, he tries to drag his latest kill in with him. Last night I woke up with the swizzle bird boring through my shoulder. (Considering he has to drag it down the stairs, up onto the couch, from there onto the bed, around me and down under the covers, that's actually quite an achievement.)

Also, according to my (admittedly statistically insignificant) sample, I may be the only person in the known world who hatesloatheshates Heaven icecreams. And Lindt chocolate balls.

 Posted by at 8:56 pm  Tagged with:

"they're close to vermin, aren't they?"

 journal, pre-crash  10 Responses »
Mar 072006
 

Kudos to my grandfather, also affectionately known as Cyberpop, for the subject line. His observation on watching the two kittens slinking and racing through the house for the past couple of days.

Arrived home late last night. Due to a mix-up by the airline staff when we booked in, we were waiting for our poor little kitten in the wrong place. When we finally found him he was sitting in his carry case at the side of a busy heavy-freight driveway. Poor little mite. He was distressed by the experience, but coped well enough. The really distressing part of the day was arriving home and being excited to see a new cat — who promptly spat and snarled and hissed and growled at him. First time I'd seen him actually frightened. He is now leery of all other cats, including that strange little mimicky brown cat in the mirrors.

Since then things have improved, sort of. Mum's cat won't come near the kitten, and growls and mutters and hisses if he comes too close. She has also taken to speaking to any available human in a high-pitched squeak which I presume translates to I hate it! We don't need it! It's horrible!, or something along those lines.

The kitten has also met the rabbit, whom he hates and loathes. (This may change when the kitten is larger than the rabbit, of course.) The poor rabbit is disappointed yet again in his quest for a friend that a) he likes, b) likes him back, and c) I won't object to their playing together.

There will be photos soon, when I get around to resizing and uploading and that sort of joy. I promise. Honest. In the meantime, to give you an idea of Max's temperament (and what he is doing right now):

Max sleeps

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