The Starving Writer Blog

I went downtown yesterday, something I was determined not to do, but I went anyway. There are things you can get down there, things that just aren’t available out here, and no matter how I try to convince myself that I don’t need those things, the truth is that I do. I can’t live without them. If I go for more than a few days without them, I start to become unfocused, forgetful. I could kick it, I suppose. Go cold turkey. Wait until the cravings pass, and then start anew. But why? Isn’t life without prosciutto — the good kind, not that stuff that comes from Germany — just a little too gray?

And that got me to thinking about Bosco. Does anyone even know what it is anymore? There was a time, a time within my own lifetime, when people had that name. Dogs had that name. Dogs especially, come to think of it. And why? I have no idea. But we all had a jar of Bosco in our pantry, a jar of Bosco with the white pump. It was part of the ritual of coming home from school, of bursting through the front door, fifth-grade energy still bubbling over. And then, once the books were put down, once the overcoat had come off and the shoes were set down on newspaper by the front door, then we set about making our Bosco. One glass of cold milk, a couple of pumps of that thick brown liquid, a few stirs with the spoon, and all was well with the universe.

Once the Bosco was dispensed with, it was time for television. Time for the Million Dollar movie, or time for the Three Stooges, or time for one of those shows hosted by some adult who specialized in being silly. Maybe there was even some homework thrown in, but I don’t remember that part. I remember the Bosco and the television and laying on the rug in front of the television — the black and white television, of course — and that’s about it. And the trouble is that I’m downtown now, thinking about Bosco, and I can’t remember why I’m here.

There has to be a reason, I tell myself. I wouldn’t bother with the 40-minute drive if it wasn’t important unless I was on my way somewhere else, somewhere along this same path, but I know that’s not the case. I know I’m after something, but all I can taste is milk flavored with chocolate syrup. All I can think of wanting right now is the feel of my spoon stirring the drink, the sensation of the varying viscosity as the Bosco slowly mixes with the milk. And I know there is no Bosco down here. The closest I can come is Starbucks, and they’re not going to let me mix the drink myself, so there’s no sense in entertaining that notion.

I linger in my car, the engine off but the radio still on, running the day through my head, trying to pick up the thread that culminated in this moment, but it is lost to me, lost forever, like a fall afternoon far away and long ago. Like a glass of Bosco.

I remember a line from a movie, a Steve Martin movie, that went something like this: “Most people think they have a sense of humor, even if they don’t.” I’m thinking about that line today, but in another light. Most people, I suspect, think that they are not idiots. Most people think that other people are idiots.

I’m thinking this because I was just behind a woman at the grocery store, a woman who clearly knew that she was going to have to pay for her groceries, a woman who was undoubtedly aware of this the entire time she stood in line, as well as the entire time she watched the cashier ring up her purchases and then bag them. She waited until the last item was in the bag, and then began to rummage through her purse for a debit card or maybe a credit card. She looked in her wallet. Nothing. She looked through her wallet again, with the same result. She started to take things out of her purse and place them on the counter, all the while looking up periodically to favor the cashier with a nervous smile.

She found something after five minutes of searching, and then proceeded to learn how to swipe a card, how to punch the proper buttons. I can only assume that this was the first time this woman had ever gone out of the house to buy something. When it was all over, she smiled at the cashier one more time and apologized. She apologized to someone who was paid by the hour to do whatever it was that needed to be done, whether that was ringing up purchases or waiting for somebody to find his or her debit card. She apologized to someone who was going to be there for eight hours, whether he wanted to be or not. She didn’t offer the rest of us waiting in line behind her the first word of apology.

She was, quite obviously, an idiot.

I thought about this as I walked out to my car. I thought about this as a large SUV, driven by someone with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a cell phone nearly ran me over. The driver, who noticed me at the last moment, offered a sheepish grin as a condolence for nearly killing me. Another idiot. And not to be outdone, there was one more giant SUV — is that all anyone drives anymore? — that blew down the parking lane as I was pulling out, coming out of my blind spot, completely oblivious to the fact that a car backing out of a space has the right of way over oncoming traffic, even if that oncoming traffic consists of idiots in giant SUVs who happen to be talking on their cell phones at the time.

I thought about this and decided to record all of it for posterity because there is always the chance that someone out there might read this and recognize their own idiotic behavior for what it is. Idiocy. And really, I would have more to say, but right now there is an idiot behind me, honking his horn and gesturing because the light is green and he is annoyed at me for typing this on my laptop. Moron!

My house is filled with dead cats. No, don’t run out and call the ASPCA; they’re not really dead. They only look dead. This is the time of day when they flop down on the nearest available surface, slow their breathing, abandon all hopes of catching and eviscerating stuffed toys, and sleep.

Of course, they look adorable when they sleep. This is what they do, probably a good part of the reason we decided to domesticate them. That and their ability — when awake, which seems to be rarely — to catch small mammals. We have not had a mouse problem ever, and the cats seem to take credit for that. Credit and ransom, actually. They demand their food, demand their treats, and they do so in a loud and insistent manner.

They also seem to believe that we have a great deal of money and that we have provided for them in our wills. How else can you explain their universal propensity to lie down on the floor, either directly in front of us or directly behind us, in the hope that we will trip over them and suffer a fatal injury when we fall to the floor. They assume that our death will benefit them somehow. I remind them from time to time that they don’t even have bank accounts and, even if they did, their lack of opposable thumbs would make it very difficult for them to withdraw funds from said imaginary bank accounts. They don’t pay very much attention to me when I say this, usually greeting the news with a yawn or a half-hearted “mrowr?”

The cat nearest me at the moment, the fluffy kitten, is twitching his ail. He is laying on his side with his arm over the side of his head, and I can only assume that he is dreaming of chasing one of the other cats or he is dreaming of chasing his favorite toy, a red stuffed dog with an impossibly ridiculous grin. I doubt very much that I will ever find out if this is the case, but I like to think that it is. One of the other cats can probably be found in the room next to me, on the day bed. She will have snuggled underneath one of the throw pillows, and she will sleep peacefully there for the next four hours.

The last cat is off somewhere, snoring, and is easy to locate. We only have to follow the sound of his voice. This is actually the good part of the day, the part where we don’t have to worry about tripping over any furry animals, the part where we don’t have to maintain our vigilance over the kitchen table, the part where we don’t have to yell “Hey! Hey! Stop that. I mean it! STOP THAT!” This is the part of the day where we can actually get some work done. If only there were some work to do, that is. It would be a good thing if only there existed some job for a cat sitter like me, or some job for a fairly competent cook who has mastered the art of juggling pans and knives and hot food while gingerly stepping over any number of cats. If only.

I am tired. There’s no getting around that, and there’s no sugar coating it. My lethargy, my drowsiness is a fact, a constant companion, and it is beginning to get in the way. I would like to be doing something. Anything. But even the thought of activity makes my eyelids heavy, and my thoughts begin to drift. Bits and pieces of dreams begin to insinuate themselves within my consciousness, if it can truly be called consciousness in this state, and that complicates hings further.

I should get in my car and drive far far away, putting as much distance between me and my fatigue as I can, but such a thing is not possible within this realm. Such is the stuff of dreams, and — there is that problem once again. Dreams. I am trying to stay away from dreams, and will likely keep up the fight for the remainder of my waking hours today until, at long last, I fall into bed and find that I cannot sleep.

Life is, sometimes, a cruel irony. That thing which you want the most can be the thing which is least attainable. Thirst in the middle of the ocean. Rational political dialog. I could go on, but I can’t think at the moment. It is all I can do to direct energy to my fingertips to force them to record my thoughts, and I do not know to what end. If it all comes crashing down tomorrow, what will they say of me? I can’t know, but the good news is that I will not care, so this is not something I need to dwell on.

If I were capable of dwelling, of course, and I am not. I am far too tired to stick to any one subject for more than a few seconds, far too tired to put together a coherent sentence. All the songs that run through my head are tired songs, lullabies. Elevator music. Is this a conspiracy? It might as well be. And yet I know that if I get up from my desk and walk down the hall to my bedroom, there will be a phone call no more than ten minutes after I lie down. This is the way it is. The outside world seems to have a line on my sleeping and/or napping schedule, and they act in concert to thwart my desires. Damn them!

As I said, life can be a cruel irony, but I wonder: are there any kind ironies? If there were, would they be the kind of thing we would talk about? I suspect that they would, if only because they serve as a counterpoint to the cruel variety. Yin and yang. Wet and dry. Electrons and protons. Everything seems to have an opposite, which leads me to wonder whether there is a “me” out there who is, at the moment, wide awake. I suppose that there is, and I wonder if he would be interested in trading places, just for the day. I would make an effort to find out, but not today. I’m just too tired.

There was a point to all of this, a point that has long since escaped me. I could pretend, I suppose, that I know what it’s all about, that I am savvy to the meaning, the subtext, the nuance of that which is… this thing. As you can see, I now lack the vocabulary to describe such things and am reduced to substitution, lame substitution, and I doubt that I can even get my point across.

But, in all seriousness, that is the point. There is not point, not even to the most important of things, as much as we would like to pretend that there is. Everything that has meaning to us will, eventually, become meaningless. Case in point: the 5-1/4 inch floppy disk. Do you have one of those? Do you even know what it is? Are you aware that, at one point in time, they came in “single-sided” and “double-sided” versions, even though both were identical? And that the double-sided versions cost more than their single-sided counterparts?

I doubt very much that you know this, if only because I can safely assume that you are younger than me. Statistics prove this, so even if — and this is highly unlikely, given the numbers — you happen to be older than me, you can’t prove it if we go solely by the statistics tables.

Then again, I can prove almost anything with numbers. If I choose. And I could choose, having majored long ago in mathematics, but this would more than likely constitute abuse of my powers, and I have sworn never to abuse my powers. In fact, I have sworn to keep my powers secret, so I am guilty, now, of having violated this oath. Slightly. But it was for a good cause, so I suppose that I might be forgiven. This time. In the first place.

Which, if I am not mistaken, is the title of this piece.

There is a reason for that. Some things precede others, some things follow, but this is the first. This is the thing which all others must follow. And as the first, it sets the tone, it establishes the style — which, by the way, I intend to break again and again — for the body of work. Except that it doesn’t, as I just pointed out, which really makes this something of a meaningless paragraph. But it has meaning, at least in the sense that I intend for each post to contain a minimum of five hundred words, which is some ninety words more that we have at present. Or eighty. It’s hard to tell, since the word counting plugin has decided to stop. It’s really more of a hiccup than anything else, and it does work in fits and starts.

As do I. This is one of those fits — or starts — that results in something. Anything. I will probably examine this in greater detail at some point in the future, but not right now. This moment, this little slice of time, will bear witness to nothing greater or more meaningful than this. And for that you have either my apologies or my demand for something akin to a cash payment.