Charlie

I wish I had a reason to blog under happier circumstances.

My precious cat, Charlie, died yesterday morning. My dad says it was around 9:30am. At 9:30am I was here at school, showering away my tiredness. This weekend would have been the weekend for me to go home. My dad had off, it would have been easy to have someone pick me up after my afternoon math class on friday. But sadly for me, and anyone else who had planned to go home, all the freshman English classes were scheduled for a "field trip" to a local art museum. It was indeed a bummer. When I woke up on Saturday I was a bit annoyed. I knew I couldn't really sleep in any longer than I already had. It was 9:13am and I wanted to get a few things done before my friend came by to drive myself and some others to the museum.

We were to arrive at the museum at 12:45pm, and my friend was planning to pick us up around 12:30pm. At 12:18pm, my mom called. This was a surprise. She told me she wanted to come and get me, bring me home for the weekend. She said she knew how much I wanted to come home, and that she would be here after I got back from the museum at 2:00pm. I was excited. It was so spontaneous. I like trips planned on a whim. Last minute packing, you've probably forgotten something trips.

The ride home was fine. Nothing unusual from my mom's side. As we approached my home town, my mom told me I should call my dad. I thought my coming home would be a surprise for him. Something nice. I could spend some time at his house. I pictured myself sitting on the floor, in the dark blue jeans that I was wearing(the only pair of pants I brought), they would get covered with cat hair, but I would pet and play with my cat, maybe work on my color theory homework.

But when I called my dad, he sounded different. He sounded distant. Like a ghost. And I knew something wasn't quite right. He had known that I was coming home. He asked me if I was sitting down, which of course I was, I was in the car. And of course, when people ask if you're sitting down, it's never good. Nothing good would cause anyone to want to sit down. Nothing bad could cause anyone to want to stand up. I first thought of my brother, had something happened to him? But I knew if it was something as serious as that, mom would have said. So what was it? I thought of Grandma, which of course was silly, we had had that phone call over a year ago, but this one would be very similar. He told me that he had woken up and made some tea. He had given Charlie a treat, everything seemed fine. He went and sat down in the living room, watching the Tottenham game. Charlie came in, as she had a tendency to do, to check things out, looked at my dad and left. He said not seconds later, he heard this noise, like Maki and Charlie make when they fight, only louder. He got up, and looked. The vet said she had died from an aneurysm. She was nine years old.

I cried hard. Like I did when Grandma died. All I wanted to do at that moment was to pet my Charlie. To feel the softness of the white fur under her chin. I tried to remember the last time I saw her. It was two weeks prior. It had been her birthday. I was so proud of her. I poorly sang to her. I kissed the top of her head, gave her some treats, and I told dad that I thought she was live forever. She was so tough that she could last forever.

She used to do this thing, I taught her to do it. She would raise her paw when she wanted a treat, or pets. Sometimes you could just look at her, and she would raise her paw. And she didn't meow like a normal cat. She actually talked in half meows. Sometimes it sounded like she was telling you off by her tone. But we used to talk to each other. I would mimic her noises and it was like an actual conversation. She was so smart, and so curious. She would knock a pen off the table just because she wanted to play with it. And she was my cat.

I went to my dad's today, for the first time since it happened. And immediately I was bawling, because I knew she wasn't going to be there. She liked to hide sometimes but I knew she wasn't hiding. I had to face the fact that I'll never see her tail whip around the corner again. Or watch her clumsily leap onto the cupboard. I'll never see her raise her paw at me. Or press her head into my hand for more pets. I just stood in my room and cried. I felt empty. Kind of like when we all cried during Toy Story 3. Not the first time, when all the toys embrace death by incineration, but at the end when Andy finds Woody in the box, and finally gives him up. When he leaves for college. The feeling isn't of the growing apart, or the leaving behind, it's the loss. I cried, not because I knew what Andy felt like, because I don't. I've never given away a toy I've been strongly attached to. It's what those toys represented. Childhood. You can never get that back. Not the innocence, or the glow feeling the world had when you're small. When growing up means being artist, even though you have no idea what that means. When everything is easy, and the only thing you could want more than extra play time, would be to learn how to write well. Looking at the living room from my doorway felt like watching Andy wave goodbye to those toys. It will never be the same.

I guess what hurts the most, other than the suddenness of it all, and how completely unfair it is, would be watching Maki. Dad told me how he was looking for her yesterday. Today I watched from the couch as he sad in the kitchen. He sniffed the air, and all around. I knew he was sniffing for her.

So decisions were to be made. She is at the vets, but what did we want to do with her. What did I want to do with her. I didn't want to see her. I want to remember her the way I've described. And as much as I would like to feel her fur one more time, it's not the same. I can't imagine how my dad must feel. He said that after he wrapped her in a towel, he carried her to the car, he said it was like carrying a baby again. So, she will be cremated. We'll have her ashes in a jar I guess, and burry her at the side of the house, maybe next weekend.

I miss her so.

Rest in peace

October 3rd 2001 - October 16th 2010

Ass-backwards

It's been a month since I've written anything, and yeah, I guess one could say a lot has happened. But not much has really happened. At least nothing worth documenting. I was going to attempt to eat what I had concocted for breakfast, but it appears to be boiling-lava-hot, so I thought I'd blog instead.

I was doing my immensely large pile of dishes earlier this morning(it was immense, no exaggeration, I didn't have any bowls left.) and I kept doubting myself in my currant situation. Am I really supposed to be here? I know ones foundation year at an art school is usually the least creative, but I didn't know I would feel less creative. I finished all my art related homework yesterday, and decided to make a collage in the evening. It was fun, but now that I look at it, the pieces are pealing up, and it kinda looks like crap. And although I'm lacking for inspiration in the drawing department, my mind is still coming up with stories.

I'm wondering if I'm doing this all ass-backwards, that maybe I should be pursuing English with some sort of art/illustration minor. But that's not a option here at art school. The problem is, that most of my creativity, art wise, comes from the stories I make up, but what I've learned, from the past, is that when I come up with a story, begin to write it down, and then go and draw the characters, or whatever, it sometimes kills the story for me.

I've just had an epiphany, just now as I shoved oatmeal into my mouth. I was going to talk about the dream I had last night. It was odd, as per usual. The part I mostly remember was when I decided to go back to my high school with some friends to visit our teachers. It was obviously right after college classes were done for the summer, because the high school was still in section. Lydia was there, though I'm not sure why because she didn't go to my high school. But after talking with some kids in the hallway I went straight for the art room, because it was my art teacher who I wanted to see first. I caught her from behind and hugged her, and she seemed not so interested, but wanted to show me the new art room. She was going on about how they had hired some woman to paint it, but she didn't use the right colors, or whatever, but as she was going on about this, it wasn't the bright blue and white that caught my eye first it was that room was full of books. It was like a labyrinth of book shelves and there were students in there but they weren't making art, but putting books on shelves, and organizing. I still saw art on the walls, but the room was mostly books. I felt kind of sad, I mean, the school has a nice library, why turn the art room into one?

I think that means something.

It's been a long time since I've had to write anything creative for school. Junior year I wrote a poem, and that was the first time since junior high. I remember there was a woman, Ms. Brown, who took over my 6th grade class after our other teacher had a heart attack, and she had us make a book of poetry. She told me I had a gift for it. My junior high english teacher was pretty fond of my poetry too. But I've never written a story for a class before. I had been enrolled in the creative writing class my senior year, but dropped it so I could switch my math class to a different period. I regret that. I should have never taken math.

I don't know where I'm going with this, and my tea is getting cold, but I feel kind of trapped. I had prepared myself to dislike my school, even prepared myself to want to transfer right away, but when I got here I loved it so much. Now I don't know. I feel like maybe I'm missing out. I'm paying for classes I don't have interest in, that are of little use to me. My English class is a joke, and my math class will never come in handy because I've learned all of what he is teaching. What if I'm missing opportunities? What if all this time spent painting squares never comes into play because I go and pursue something else.

I know where I want to end up at the end of all this, I just don't know how to get there. I'm sure that's true for everyone, but I hate realizing after so long, that maybe what I wanted, and what I'm after, isn't going to make me happy.

The truth is here.

Another reason I haven't been blogging, other than lack of time I mean, is that I spend more time on Tumblr. Also, my friends and I have started our collab channel.