August Storm

This was a bad storm for the cats to be caught out in. I didn't see it coming. We were still in the middle of summer as far as I was concerned. Especially after the decent rains we enjoyed a couple of weeks ago, this was surely going to be a drought period.

I woke up early, before seven, and I saw the occasional flash of lightning across the dark sky, but I didn't think anything of it. Even if it did rain, it could not be more than a shower. But that was very mistaken.

It has been storming hard for a couple of hours now. Sammy made it back early, before it got bad, but Ash is still out there.

Then the storm turned nasty. So much shattering thunder. I cringed knowing how Ash is particularly vulnerable to the roar of that cannon fire. I was actually afraid that I might lose Ash for good this time, that she might get lost in her vain pursuit to escape the torrential rain and the constant thunder.

However, about an hour ago, I saw that she is in the back yard, but the yard was already flooded and she was stuck at the shed. She is there now, soaking wet and no doubt weary. I tried a couple of times to go out to her and rescue her, the way I used to for Coco. Unlike Coco, however, Ash won't let me get near her. Instead of seeing me as a friend and a ride back to this warm comfy home, she seems to somehow see me as a threat, like I might be a cat serial-killer, as though I have not shown her over the years only gentle caring love.

This storm is not letting up, and the water level in the back yard is only rising. I feel some relief in the fact that at least she is here, but I cannot see how she makes it into the house anytime soon.

Jack

The thought of Jack has been popping into my mind lately. Maybe I can exorcise some of this energy in writing about it. It perhaps started with a snippet of a dream from a few nights back.

In this dreamworld Jack apparently returns 'home' to live with Pop and me. Though, he also seems to revert to his younger self of the early 90s, when I named him Quiet White, before he lost his virginity and became whatever it is he has become. He is restless, and I try to help him by suggesting something that I do to wile away some hours. I show him my chess books and tell him how I like to play out the recorded chess games. In the wonder of dreams, the magnetic chess set appears on the table next to us, and I offer it to him. (I keep the wooden one to myself.) He eagerly takes it up.

Earlier today, I found myself wondering what one of Jack's days looks like, thinking that I would like to be a fly on his walls, or maybe have the feeds from a number of mini-cameras planted around him. What does his home life look like? What would I see and hear? What is his social life like? Does he go out with some guys from work? Does he still frequent stripper clubs and prostitutes, or does he have an extra girlfriend or two? From what I hear of his discussions with Pop, his conversations cannot be that engaging in themselves. He really does sound like a high-school dropout whose IQ can't be more than a hair over 110. To be sure, sex with attractive women perhaps makes up for that.

Then, less than an hour ago, when I was thinking about what to write, hungering for a conversation myself, considering whether to try a dialogue with my suicided mother, I found myself wondering how often Jack thinks of her and how he thinks about her. Theirs, after all, was the only real love connection in the family. I assume he does, but his mind is so limited and personality so cold, it wouldn't shock me if she almost never comes to his mind, and almost never in any meaningful way. Or am I wrong about that?

On the other hand, why should I give a fuck about anything about him? It would seem a terrible waste of time and thought. There is certainly no return in it. I guess I am simply feeling my loneliness. It would be nice to have a little brother who loves me, especially one that can drive and is earning some pocket money and is happy to take me out to eat.