Yesterday I bought a Sony digital voice recorder
for $79.95 from Good Guys
to record all of my brilliant ideas
.. Somehow I had gotten it into my head that I frequently have strokes of brilliance
that get left by the wayside, go unadressed, unanswered. My solution--to jot them down digitally in three separate files of easily accessible memos
, which will not exceed
the length of 90 minutes max, in sum.
I went to sleep two and a half hours ago. Comparatively early for me, I know, but I was tired. I woke up just now to the incoherent screaming of my neighbor, Alexis, across the street, and the shouting of her friends. From what I could decipher I think they were coming back from a party and she was really wasted/stoned/trashed/whatever. I had a million thoughts on the matter. Questions, from How did we end up so different when we used to be best friends in elementary school? to How do I make sure that my kids (not that I have kids) end up more like me than like her? and does wanting that seem cocky?..
Unfortunately none of my brilliant ideas will be saved tonight. They will fade, unpreserved. The recorder is downstairs, on the counter that divides the kitchen from the family room, the counter with a brass sink that doesn't work and is covered by a thick layer of dust.
I will not go downstairs to get the recorder because I am afraid of waking my cat.
This is something that happens to me often in the middle of the night. She is probably sitting on the coffee table in the family room (she's allowed to do that), in that bizarre squatting position that allows felines to give off the illusion that they have no legs. If I go downstairs, I will not go unnoticed. My cat will wake, observe as I find the said item which I had come to retrieve, hear me go back upstairs, hear me close the oor and get into bed. After a minute or two she will run up the stairs, not making a sound as her little feet pad their way up each stair. She will sit outside my bedroom door. She will meow for attention.
She knows I am awake. It's all over. She knows that by making a fuss about it for long enough I'll let her in. She'll climb into my bed, purring loudly, rhythmically, soothingly. She will find a comfortable position, one where she is partially rested on me and partially on the bed. She will pretend to sleep. But I will have to scratch her beneath her chin. Her favorite spot. I will be cautious, so as not to crush her. I will never finish my night's sleep.