What Can I Say?
Emmy is the first black cat I've had take up residence. Mouse, named by MSC, my Potrero Hill cat thirty years back in San Francisco, was a Panda like black and white, the rest have been Tabby's. I said Emmy had big blue eyes, but I think they're really green. Green is traditional with cats, is it not? What do I know? I have a cat, her name is Emmy, she lives under my bed, at least for now.
And the rest of your day?
Just a day, another Monday. I read another hundred pages or so of Mailer's The Spooky Art last night. Same old Mailer. I would have liked to have had it when I was eighteen or twenty. Same with all the interviews with authors I hear on public radio. The patterns I observed in my own writing, when I was writing in the seventies, turn out to be bog common. The conversation with the unconscious they talk about, they all talk about, I only vaguely understood in those days, but now, having listened to all of these real writers, having read all of these real writers (such as Mailer), I still only vaguely understand it, except now I have all this cocktail party patter I can bring out to impress the ladies.
"Why, yes, I'm am feeling low, but my unconscious mind left for Acapulco last week and it won't be back until the snow melts, so why don't we take this bottle of Old Feminine Mystique up to your place and knock off a little Tolstoy?"
My own unconscious mind remains unconscious, more so than my conscious mind, of course, but only so much more so. I wonder if they ever make mistakes on the assembly line and give you two of the one and none of the other? If they do, I can attest to the fact my unconscious mind doesn't talk any more readily with my brother conscious-unconscious mind, except under the influence of alcohol, in which case they babble on in their own idiom and they don't provide translations or a Rosetta stone.
This has rapidly crashed and burned, even for you.
Yes, well, Monday. What can I say?