It’s not an overflowing, ecstatic, bright, sparkly, chest-filling happiness. It’s a very basic happiness. A weird peace. The little animal putz around the house, languidly, mildly interested in its surroundings, enjoying its food and water and attention and soft spots on the bed. He enjoys sitting on sweatshirts when they’re folded, or when they’re not… really he enjoys can clump of cloth that looks vaguely like a pillow. He especially enjoys it when it is situated towards the middle of the bed, which is usually when I am sorting laundry, and it’s very inconvenient to have cat hair on my freshly washed clothing. If I shoo him away though, it’s ok – He has found spots under couches and chairs, on tables, and on the floor where he sits as a furry potato and simply exists.
He meows for food, for attention, for water, or simply because he has some other unidentified want rattling around in his very straightforward cat mind. He pays attention to all the noises, gets to know them; he reads the atmosphere through sound and smells and fast blips that dance around his sight in the form of insects and interesting trinkets.
He wears clothes sometimes. He is a cat that does not mind a little shirt or a frilly collar, and he enjoys belly rubs as a primary experience. He likes to have his fur brushed; he goes nuts over it.
He is a little creature that is soft and loves softly, seeking the warmth of people around him, his affections especially (as one would expect) concentrated on the person who feeds and waters him the most. But any person will do – any soft hand that treats him nicely and gives him a good thorough pet.
He is a lovely, small being that wants and lives and simply exists. I enjoy taking care of him, I enjoy making him happy in the small ways that make a cat happy, and I am glad to be his caretaker. He is my little creature and I am making a good home for him, I hope.
It makes me happy because he is always at home. I have so long been afraid of the concept of home; I have for so long felt detached from the part of home that makes a person feel like a person. I’m not sure if that makes sense. It’s that “home is where the heart is” sort of thing – physical space is a huge component but a physical space is only temporary and transient without the concept of home projected onto it. And home, I think, has a lot more to do with the core of a person’s Self. Who you are on the inside, what constructs your identity and the wistfully immaterial conglomerate of all the little traits and interests and attitudes and idealizations that coalesce into some thingness that is a you. What it is scientifically, who can say – I can barely even account for it philosophically – but we are all somehow familiar with it. Myriad words and metaphors are employed to describe it. I like to employ the idea of home.
. . .
I will have to continue this thought later. That is all for now. I have tried for a while to make this an outward-focused blog, where I write about various subjects in the world and in my readings, but I think I need to allow myself to also use it for self-reflection. I barely use it anyway – trying to write full articles is a lot of hard work, and at this point in my life I need to put that energy into writing & studying for school.
I will still try to write articles (once every year probably, at this rate, haha) but they are more likely to come from a place of reflection and stream-of-consciousness contemplation rather than purposely constructing essays. My last blog was more consistently kept up doing it that way.
Aside from that, I have also had the thought of using this as a dumping ground for things I learn in school. I love the topics I am studying, they’re very interesting (which is why I suppose that’s my major..), and it would help me to study if I have a place to synthesize everything in one place.
So yea. ttfn.