“Ten.” (12 July 2016)


Today’s Ten makes me sad.

Blackie jumps up on my lap while I’m messing about on the computer. He circles around and yowls in my face. I am reminded that I have forgotten to cut his nails.

I encounter Poppy in the toilet, come to see what I’m up to. I reach down and stroke him a bit too roughly, prompting a surprised, aggrieved squawk.

Curly, as always, drops limply to the floor and rolls over to expose his belly after I chase him out of the TV room for growling at Cupcake.

And as for Cupcake, she sits on the TV console, watchful, head and neck waving about like a heat-seeking motion sensor when I come towards her.

These Tens are so Plato-shadow-cave futile. My words capture almost nothing but the gritty miniscule bits left after melting down a gigantic cotton candy. Lately, instead creating memories, the Tens remind me of mortality and moments that slip through the fingers like fine sand. I started this as a collection of “memory fossils” but now I realise what I’m really doing is trying to store up bits of ammunition against the inevitable. Useless, flimsy paper-made ammunition that would doubtless disintegrate when I need them. I’m thinking about stopping, and yet I won’t feel right if I don’t record all the little bits and pieces that I can get.

And so the Tens go on, and on, until there is nothing left to record but a bittersweet end.


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