exercise 174

8/8/2019 Exercise 174

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Exercise174-AdaptedForScribd.rtf 10.09.07 10:0

This arose as part of a writing exercise blog, which is curiously creative and fun. Irecommend a quick visit to music student and wannabe writer Stef : http://52weeksofwordage.blogspot.com/

I enjoyed the unexpected twists of my response to exercise 174 so much that I decided

to include it on Scribd as a bit of verbal whimsey – and with the hope that one or moreothers may find it bemusing too.

Exercise #174: The Man & His Cathttp://52weeksofwordage.blogspot.com/2010/09/exercise-174-man-his-cat.html

For the exercise Stef provided the following opening paragraph:

You see an odd-looking man in a bar in a strange town. He has a cat on his lap,and he orders a cup of coffee, slowly spooning sugar into it. He strokes the cat'sblack fur and says, "This contact is illusory. The cat and I are separated as

though by a pane of glass, because man lives in time, in successiveness, whilethe magical animal lives in the present, in the eternity of the instant."

What do you say back to him? And he to you? What does the cat do? What happenedto this man before he came into the bar?

We were left to finish it as our creative muse guided us. Below is my effort:

"Are you talking to me?" I ask the shelf of spirits behind the bar's working area. I

figure that since that is what the cat-man seems to be talking to, I will followalong. But I shift my eyes left to better see the pair.

But before I can even register the cut and colour of his jacket, my eye becomes

fixated on the cat's very green eyes. They are so bright and so wide open that

they seem to pierce my left eye. After a moment I am quite sure I hear it say,

just audibly through the bar noise, in a monotone baritone "What's it to you?"

I take a sip from my glass of beer, sigh with pleasure at the cool bubbles in my

mouth and throat after I swallow, and wonder how I heard a cat talk. With theback of my hand I wipe away the foam that I feel caught in my moustache.

Philosophically, it is an interesting question, I think. I mean the cat's question:

What is it to me? Or is that, What's it to me? Or, what if it's What's it to me ?

The subtle variations of meaning give me pause. I don't know how to answer.

Nor how to ask the cat for clarification.

8/8/2019 Exercise 174



I take another sip. Or, maybe it means What is it to me? Too many questions,

too few beers.

I take another sip, a little longer, a little slower. Then I turn to look at the cat.

"I ," and I place big stress on that 'I,' "see you."

The cat says nothing. I think I hear it begin to purr. It slowly closes and re-opens

its eyes, and with a rock steady gaze resumes its stare into my eyes, and

perhaps into my soul. I do not blink. I dare not blink!

The man takes a sip from his martini, eats an olive and fingers the empty plastic

stick with the one hand while rubbing the cat's head between its ears with the

other. The cat lifts it head in obvious pleasure with each rub of the man's fingers.

There is no glass separating them, I think.

'That's what you think,' I hear the cat speak without moving either its lips or jaw.

'He never ever gives me a martini. Hell, I'd even take a foo-foo drink. But no. By

the end of the night, he's feeling no pain, and I'm left feeling left out.'

I nod with a rueful smile. That I understand. I turn away from the cat-man and

his cat to take a slow sip from my beer. While looking at the plethora of

colorfully bottled spirits, I think, Beer may well be the gods' greatest gift to man.

But just mans'? I wonder.

I turn slightly to take another side-look at the cat. I see with my left eye that the

cat is still watching me, even looking into my soul. The man finishes his drink

and I see him, without a breath of pause, gesture for another from the keep.

I become aware that my right arm has moved, without my knowing it. Is still

moving with my half full glass firmly clutched in its — my! — hand. I watch in

amazement, as if in slow motion and outside my time reference, as my beer ismoved by me towards the cat, and then slowly tilted. As if this moment will last

forever, the cat turns its head upwards, and my golden beer flows in a graceful,

gentle arc into its sharp fanged maw.

'Thanks,' the man says.

8/8/2019 Exercise 174



I don't say anything.

The cat says nothing. I hear it burp with feline delicacy and watch it lick from its

whiskers a small splash of beer foam that had missed its mouth. It slowly blinks

its bright green eyes, and I feel it rubbing itself against the legs of my soul.

And I wonder, Who of me here can hear the cat purring?

exercise 174

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