It’s a game of hunt: an acting arrangement of chords with a lurking melody stalking words—words that could alter & progress, or kill the idea. You hear them but they can’t be found.
Perceived writers receive plenty of blank journals, sketchbooks & lined or squared pads as go-to gifts. There are also ones that the perceived writers impulse-buy for themselves in moments of perceived potential inspiration. None are wasted, though — there’s a routinely sudden need to try & rephrase a mania. One holiday years ago, a three-pack of Kate Spade branded notepads from an outlet mall sales outing were gifted into the cache. They were initially assigned strategic designations around the house in case of a passing mind-doodle — one dropped at a home studio music stand, one set with utensils for general chewing while at the dinner table & one laid out on a nightstand to scratch illegibly in the dark. Pages were noted with unrelated passing thoughts & detached word combos, leaving most about half blank.
A cat lives here that lives to fetch. It knows the sound of paper turning as notepad scribbles are reviewed from a comfy chair, coveted by cat & non-cat alike, in the free-range area of the house. The call quickly turns primal. A pounce lands. A pad is pawed. A corner is gnawed. Kate Spade is the prey. Survival depends on ingenuity. You can buy time with a ripped piece. Scrunch the note into a ball. The cat hears the crumpling & crouches into ambush position with a pre-launch butt-wiggle. Lob. A supersonic smear of black fur skids across the room then vanishes around a corner with a slap shot. Hear the cat from the next room, attacking your words. Go back to work on the pads. The cat returns without the note & looks you in the eyes. Tear another. Throw. Review faster between sallies. Tear again. Try & decipher the night writing portions. Unable. Tear & ball the whole page. There’s a thud in the next room, then silence. Rise to investigate. There should be a dozen note balls on the way, but nothing—not even the cat. Go back to the comfy chair — a single ball at the feet, half-opened as if the cat lost interest in the writing.
Flatten & review the toy — a random record unfolds from traveling around the country a few years ago as the lockdown ended. The alarmed writer reports that there's no memory of ever seeing them in the years before the void, but suddenly, they're everywhere: something called Noodles & Co. They must’ve spread as well during the pandemic. Recall that an inevitable investigative visit to one of them on that trip ended without ordering— an issue of broth.
The word-hunt ends without a takedown. Noodles & Co won’t be expressed in song. Scrunch & throw. Wonder if any of the lost thoughts will be unearthed someday under a bed or in a corner, still balled up with revelations when you're no longer around. The cat tears back into the room & it’s in a killin’ mood.
I can’t wait for the new cat-centered concept album. “Tails + Butts.”
KITTY!