reading

i'm reading Bag of Bones by Stephen King. I'm about a third of the way through, and by this point the prtagonist, an author who has writer's block ever since his wife died, is speaking out loud to the moose head in his lake cabin. bizarrely enough, i understand and identify with this behaviour. it's not mad so much as it is imaginative and introspective, both on the character's part and mine. early on, there is a line about writers being people who have taught their minds to do odd things. perhaps it's true.

i think the reason that writers always seem to have a cat or another about is so that they seem to be talking to someone when they are actually talking out loud, letting the pieces of their internal conversations slip forth into the real world. today, i've been grateful for the kittens, watching them as i listen to the voices inside me, giggling as they show that cats have only one arch emeny, but that they are powerless against it: the sunbeam on the floor (no really, they walk across it and get stuck, sure as flypaper, and then are quickly drugged into a napstate for the coming quarter hour). the soundtrack that seems to be going along with my dialogue today is a snippet of a song, one that i don't know the title of or any of the verse lyrics, but i know the chorus and tune are correct, at the very least.

you should see the look on the animals' faces as i get up to get coffee or go to the bathroom, dancing a bit and singing

I like to hear some funky Dixieland
Pretty mama come and take me by the hand
By the hand, hand
Take me by the hand, pretty mama
Come and dance with your daddy all night long