Kitties and playwrights

With Rachel's help, I was able to get an appointment today to meet with Marjorie Chan about my writing. She's a visiting playwright on campus for the week; the theater department is performing one of her plays in December, so her visit has a lot to do with that. I was a little bit worried about it, admittedly--although the opportunity was obviously one not to pass up, handing her my work and then having her tell me what she thinks seemed slightly awkward. Before the meeting, though, I was creeping around on her website and found a link to her Twitter account . . . on it, she posted this video. In my experience, appreciation for goofy cat videos usually has a correlation with compatibility, so after seeing it I was much more enthused about meeting her and less apprehensive about the forceps-to-my-writing thing.

My hypothesis was correct, and she was indeed very nice. I bit my tongue when I felt inclined to talk about silly cats, though. Certain things should remain unspoken. Meow.

A four-legged ghost story

I rarely take stock in dreams, but I can't stop thinking about the one I woke up from this morning. I dreamed that I was home with my family and while we were all our current ages, suddenly we'd gone back to December four years ago after we had to put our dog Jessie down. The veterinarian knocked on our door with Jessie at her feet, who was placid and quiet but very much alive, telling us that she'd come back. We were all so happy but strangely accepting of the story. Before leaving her with us, the vet suggested that we get a cat to keep Jessie company to prevent her from dying again, so we did--a little brindled kitten that nobody felt attached to because it was only there to keep Jessie with us.

The cat could speak to me. She told me that she felt cheated out of a real family and that she wanted someone to love her for who she was rather than feeling used (a little My Sister's Keeper, I guess), so I apologized and we became friends. The cat translated things between me and Jessie, who couldn't speak human, and that was that.

Silly, right? I don't know why, but it's been bothering me all day. Maybe it's just the fact that someone (because yes, our dog was a someone) I loved so much was conjured up at such a weird time, completely unprompted. I don't know. It made me feel homesick and sad and old and small.

A stranger's stages of grief

I'm sitting on the couch with Katy, doing work and listening to classical music on YouTube. After clicking on Ralph Vaughan Williams' Greensleeves, I happened to see one of the comments that a prior visitor to the site posted about the song while listening to it:

Bitter joy when your loved one leaves you for good... Anger & joy... Sadness... Yearning, and finally... You are over with it...

I don't recommend heavy drinking while listening these master pieces... You'll just break your heart...

A little bit funny, and a little bit tragic. Oh, the humanity!

Bad hair days

Something I learned today: one way to measure relative humidity is by using a hair hygrometer, an instrument that operates through the use of human hair. The hygrometer is super-accurate because hair's consistency changes up to 4% based on humidity. Isn't that crazy?!

Today, however, is not one of those days that my hair will change based on humidity. The temperature is currently 45 degrees F and the only thing my hair will be doing is freezing in place.

Happy last day of September! Love, Western New York.

Little Meg breaches the space-time continuum

I've been having these strange moments lately where I'll suddenly be transported back into childhood, and for a moment I'm confused about exactly where in time I am. Sometimes I'll glance up at myself in the mirrored closet doors in my room and see myself in sixth-grade form--face rounder, white-blond hair painfully taut and pulled back into that eternal ponytail. It's a little bit surreal, and slightly terrifying (as most things involving the middle school experience tend to be). Perhaps I've been reverting into the self-conscious, worrisome little person I was then, lately. Maybe?

I had another moment like that earlier this afternoon; I woke up from a nap around six o'clock and the dim light from the window reminded me of one afternoon when I was little . . . I had fallen asleep on a loveseat in the living room and woke up just as the sky became dark. My mom was making dinner in the kitchen and something about the faint light of the room, the smell and the sounds of utensils and drawers opening and closing just stuck with me. I always think it's strange which moments we remember most vividly--for me, it's hardly the ones in which something momentous or dramatic occurs, but little everyday things pieced together in this nonsensical way. When I opened my eyes this afternoon I was convinced that if I shuffled into the kitchen, eyes half-closed, my mom would be standing over the stove. If I looked into the mirror, I would be twelve years old.