I haven’t seen it but something’s there for sure and it’s no mouse. I’m guessing opposum or raccoon. The noise was loud so I stopped what I was doing and went to find out what was going on. Near as I can tell, something was in the enclosure beneath the work bench which is on the other side of the wall in the garage.

The cat is worthless as a quick responder. His interest can’t be excited without visuals. Besides, he was busy plotting his own mischief which I’ve since cleaned up.

None of my flashlights could be found and the lantern wasn’t much of a spot light, so whatever it was remained out of my view so late at night. I opened the garage door enough that it could escape then left the cabinet doors ajar and waited, but nothing happened. I then secured the cabinet doors after dropping a slice of bread in there. Tomorrow I can open it for awhile and give what ever is in there time to escape.

I went back to my reading.

In the past few years I’ve gotten in the habit of reading aloud. When I began, I was trying to stay awake while reading scripture so I read at an ultra fast pace, then with various accents.  Over time this practice evolved to include other content. Magazine articles I read exactly as written. News stories I  modify for my own amusement. Scripture often gets converted to colloquial language, as if the person who wrote the passage is delivering it.

Since I began this practice, I’ve read significantly more and fallen asleep less while reading .

Some times the cat still plays the fool during a reading. He seems to think that’s the best time to annoy me with calls to stop it and pay attention to him. During the warmer weather that gets him a free ticket to the outside.

After reading, there is a transition to some other activity. Sometimes that’s the time to write.  Neither reading or writing are agreeable to music and yet, as I write this Stephano Mocini is playing “Our Hope” in the background.

How appropriate, because these scripture readings help me map out the way to goals I earnestly want to achieve. They’re like a sky view of the maze that life is.

They play off against the counter influence of life in the trenches. Such influence is what I felt this morning when I was discovering that the best alarm sounds are not loud buzzers or ringers. Today it was the soft sound of convulsion as a cat worked on puking on the new quilt. Soft, rhythmic, and ominous.

I flew out from under the covers and pulled the creature to the floor where he produced a slimy puddle and quit.

Too late. And the quilt doesn’t fit in the washing machine. So I cleaned it with vinegar.

Writings in my book journal have a different quality altogether from what I publish in blogs and on line posts. They’re raw, unpolished. A quick read afterwords shows them to be comparatively crude because the constructs are first-pass thoughts unpolished.

Example here, I’m explaining some simple thing in the most tortuous long winded way. Typical of a journal entry, it’s not a new thought, but an ongoing evaluation of a familiar theme. Artists and philosophers share this with programmers and engineers: We’re made just a bit differently to accommodate the talents necessary for the role, meaning our sensitivities are adjusted upward and with focus. Why I feel I need to explain these things in a journal entry now escapes me.

I could summarize this with, “accuse me of seeing through rose colored glasses, but I don’t care. I like it.”

Getting back to that “counter influence” that I mentioned that was interrupted by the cat, it was the usual exact opposite sensation to what happened only a day or two ago when I was favored with a mental walk through of a story I need to write when I found it very compelling. Whereas I was very please with the concept and details of the tale, it wasn’t long before I was second guessing it and getting bogged down with doubt while writing one of the ‘scenes’ of the story.

By the time I woke up to the rhythmic sounds of my quilt getting defiled, I had nearly talked myself out of writing the story. I’d come up with lots of ways the plot could fall apart.

The reason the story is so important is that like the other stories I’ve devised, it provides beautiful opportunities. Stories must be illustrated. I think that’s how Robin Hood and Treasure Island became the classics that they are. NC Wyeth brought them alive. Howard Pyle did also.

My favorite part of writing is the imagery it allows me an excuse to create. It is the single best hope for my artistry since static images of pretty girls and attractive women seem not to be sales opportunities and no one seems particularly interested in buying my car art or landscapes as yet.

So the best hope is to write and illustrate.

I began toying with this almost ten years ago when I wrote the tale of the lad who despite having a leg injury that left him somewhat crippled was able to rid the community of a frightening predator by use of strategy. What a fun story to write! At least, that particular event where he outsmarted the beast.

I saw a pivotal point in the tale in my minds eye and what’s interesting is that when I went to paint it, I had to make modifications to the imagery because what I saw was from the eyes of the man in the story.

The Plan Was Immediately Activated and I Became Bait