September 19th, 2010

with Humph

Manny wants to play. Manny doesn't want me to watch movies on my computer.

But I've been procrastinating with my case of narratives for the film fest first pass. That cat needs some animal company, I really do think.

I was just remembering, casting about for toys for Mann & seeing a hair scrunchie, how Humph used to fetch those when he was a kitten. Later he remembered he loved me to throw them and him to chase them, but he forgot the part of how he'd bring them back to me (provided I stood in the same place in the living room, and threw in one of 3 directions) (favorite-- into the bathtub, which remained a place for him to have fun & roll around & want me to follow him).

Earlier today I remembered his being excited by my duffel-ish luggage. When I got either or both of those bags down, or tried to pack them, or emptied them and wanted to put them away, he loved climbing into them. One, in fact, is still sitting on a box of clothes in the foot of the closet, cuz he had been hanging out there of late.

It has a sort of pathetic mundanity to it, or so I imagine, these habits of the dead pet, recalled. But there they are. They come to me. This afternoon I saw some video taken from this computer in which he wanders by, or hangs with me, or is in the window. I also came to a picture I took of his sick-face eyelids, with the extra inner white eyelids showing, the first day I noticed he was sick. That was a bit of a shock. It was in with foster kitty pix I was uploading some of to facebook. Anyway, I don't suppose it has the aesthetically pleasing poignancy of Lee Ann 'n' Lorne laying in bed, going back and forth with recollections of the many nicknames they'd had for their just-dead pet, but it's of the same cloth. Or they are, these things.

I was depressed before he got sick and died. Then I was very sad and lonesome. Then I was depressed again, with that sad, and that lonesome, still there. Today I roused myself to go out and do some shit in the yard, after watching a silly old movie with Fred McMurray as a rancher rodeo guy and Irene Dunne as a city-girl songwriter who gets together with him. It wasn't very good, but it was good to watch, if you know what I mean. At one point I tried to concentrate on whether I find Irene attractive. There's a kind of smugness to her, undercut by a friendly charm but a little too together, in a certain way, somehow. Like that twinkle in her eye seems to suggest, at least in comedies, to my recollection, that she knows best. So anyway I did do some yard stuff and now I'm gonna try to see another coupla shorts before scaring up some food and watching "Mad Men." It's not like the depression has lifted off into the atmosphere, and beyond!, though wouldn't that be nice, but it's lifted a little, here and there. I know it's not gone. At least I'm pretty sure it's not gone. I hate it. I've known it so long, and hated it the whole time, so you'd think it'd not want to keep hanging around.

I'm gonna put some pictures of Humphrey behind a cut now. Goodbye, Humph. Have a good time at college. I know you won't write, but maybe the dean will let us know if you do settle on ornithology.

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