kitty litter: just desserts for wanting to write

(inspired, no less, by the title of my thesis adviser's blog. i had two choices, really: the other one was pussy poo. i'm not sure.)

commercial: just two seconds ago, i was subjected to the vilest form of torture known to younger brothers who have older sisters - a used (operative word) bra was placed on top of my head. this needs no further explanation.

there have been countless of times when i've been faced with moments of uncertainty, especially when it comes to writing. i can't exactly recall who said it, must be Gay Talese or John McPhee, that writing, for him, is a painful process. it should hurt. imagine mutilating yourself, taking a big chunk out of your cerebrum, running it through a food processor, picking up the clumps of chunky-guisado brain tissue, and garnishing them on a blank sheet of bond paper.

am i exaggerating? yes. but, the transubstantiation of ideas to words on a page, though less graphic, is an experience that exemplifies that very violence i described in the previous paragraph. there's something masochistic about writing (especially memoirs), reliving experiences best kept in the cobwebbed corners of the forgotten. writing is an arduous task. even thinking up words like "arduous", and wondering if you spelled and used it right, is, in itself, arduous. This explains why most people, myself included, find writing difficult. nay. absolutely excruciating.

is it the anxiety we are subjected to when confronted with the whiteness of MS Word's blank document that prevents us from transcribing our thoughts? or is it the pressure we succumb to when threatened with the inevitability of our deadlines looming just beyond the horizon (read too many Choose Your Own Adventure books). in my case, i think it's much simpler - i've got nothing to write about.

you can say, "hey, beefcake, sure you do. everyone does." and this is proven by the proliferation of the ubiquitous carlo-sat-beside-me-today blogs, ceaseless musings on trivialities otherwise known as "my life." they usually begin with "you won't believe what happened to me today."

what? you got abducted by aliens in Von Dutch t-shirts? or did you meet your longtime idol, pinoy action star legend, Roi Vinzon?

"i sneezed..."

and your medulla oblongata came out your nose?

"...and i forgot to say 'excuse.'"

you mean, "excuse me."

"no, 'excuse' lang. i am pinoy after all."

let me quote anonymous - "what's the fuck?" unlike the blogs i read diligently (grossy's, orange's, matabangpusa's, faustus's - naks, faustus level), the ones that thrive in the internet's "midwest" often assume that the detailing of one's colorful burgis life deserves a Pulitzer. well, it's not the alleged colorful burgis life that annoys me, but the manner of telling. before i totally regress and sound like an anglo-am new critic, it's best that i move on to my point - although everyone is gifted with enough material (one's life) to draw from, i don't believe i am a skilled enough writer to make my dull and uneventful life appear mildly entertaining in print.

so, that brings me back to my initial problem - i have nothing to write about. but, as always, there is that silver lining that one eventually sees. the solution to my problem lies in Thoreau and every boy scout who found living in the great outdoors and being a human beef jerky to an angry grizzly a fascinating experience. i can write about the natural world. about butterflies and shit.

and that's what i did, i sought for inspiration in mother nature's bosom (not the only thing i sought, believe that). i went out our front door and allowed myself to experience nature, at its finest - even though we're only talking about my front yard. well, it's not as breathtaking as Thailand's jungle tour, but i did see (or suffer) a couple of interesting things in that tiny patch of Kakarong1 paradise. there were the two malunggay tree stumps and the little green branches sprouting from where i hacked off the tree's upper torso. it kind of reminded me of Trolls, those mad-looking dolls suffering from the ephemeral bad-hair day, we all had in the early 90's - the little green branches, with the tiny yellow-green malunggay leaves, looked like the stump's gravity defying hair. there were also the scattered leguminous herbs made famous by leprechauns and all things Irish, that disturbed the homogeneity of the carabao grass. i also noticed the beauty of our decaying house, hairline cracks that climb the length of our white stone walls. and lastly, the roof that covers the car port and its wooden beams hollowed by the insatiable appetite of termites.

nice, i thought. contrasting the serenity of our lawn and the dilapidated state of our fifty year-old house is enough for one good blog entry. but as i turned towards the front door, a familiar smell caught my attention.

the thing with cat turd is that it seldom manifests itself in our presence. it lurks in some ingenious hiding place - cats are known to be discreet and subtle, even in their fecal activities (those who don't cover their "mess" with litter box dirt is shunned in the cat community, like the way we hang those who fail to flush). unlike the smell of dog shit, which is often anticipated because we see the freshly digested sculpture sun-baked in the middle of the street, pussy poo (there, i used it. this is an NC-17 website.), mimicking the predatory instinct of the wildcat, sneaks up on its prey, and without warning, pounces on the unassuming victim. nothing prepares one for the reek of kitty litter.

at this point, the parallel can't be more obvious. writing can be quite the olfactory experience. sometimes, it really stinks.

1 - the name of our street. had a tough time telling my classmates back in third grade where i lived. they were all like, "Chicharong?"