Memory is the strangest of companions—a dream-presence that lives in the corners of the mind, in the dark places somewhere between soul and flesh. He’d once heard that the soul resides not in the chest, but in the meat of the neck. Unsure if such a thing is true—this thing about souls and necks—he contents himself with thoughts of a less ethereal nature. Memories emerge, however: What he said, what she said in response, and why she is no longer welcome here. The smell of coffee is strong in the air. The noise of traffic is a subliminal whisper beyond the kitchen window. Steam beads the glass like ungainly diamonds. He has spent the night painting, and beneath the smell of coffee, there is the olfactory doodle of turpentine and sunflower oil. Beneath his nails are colors he recognizes: phthalocyanine green, burnt sienna, and a shade of red not unlike the skin of an overripe fire truck. He reads the morning paper: there are bombings in countries he will never visit. He does not drive, and—still—gas prices are high. The newspaper says nothing of this, but the expense of fossil fuel is now reason for a sympathetic rise in the price of apples. A pop-diva feels that her belly-button ring empowers women. He smiles, and then frowns. The world, he thinks, is too strange a place. The cat beneath the table cares little for what he reads or what he thinks. The cat beneath the table waits patiently for scraps or smears of breakfast grease left in a plate. *** I have no idea who this nameless character is, or what his presence may become; if anything. I do know that a cat is involved with the inspiration for this picture. Cats with mythic names (and with non-mythic owners) are an endless source of amusement and rakish contemplation. They are such charming creatures, so wonderfully disinterested in anything that falls below feline dignity. Most human affairs are not worthy of a cat’s refined attention. *** I was visiting with Corey when this picture was taken. He was seated at the kitchen table, working on his journal, and drinking coffee. His roommate (the one without the mythic name) out for the day, and I’d just woken up. We’d planned on wandering around and taking photographs, but it was still early…coffee was the most appropriate thing we could have shared at that moment. As Corey was working on his journal, I contented myself with the cat, and in a moment of trying to see the world as a cat might see the world with human eyes, I got down under the kitchen table, snapped a few pictures, and later…substantially later…ambled with Corey through the rather sterile depths of a well-to-do neighborhood, enhanced here, there, and there, with little bullet-lozenges of raccoon poop. As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting. And I hope your upcoming week is a good one.