The Writing Desk Saga 
(Sequel to previous blog post: "Desk with a View" from 5/2014)
UPDATE: Unfortunately, Sonny passed away on 1/2/2015. RIP, Sonny - we will miss you. At least you will live on in the blogosphere.)

I might as well just say it.  This house is lucky to have me.  I don't think the walking animals agree though, especially given my stature. But, just because they stand upright and I cannot, it doesn't mean I am any less, right?  After all, I am domesticated and friendly when I want to be.  I let them carry me on occasion.  I snuggle under my terms. I am the household cat.  And I hold this position in high regard, literally.  

The house is run by a short walking animal and two taller ones.  The short one has a gentle touch, but she stinks.  Not all the time.  Just mostly in the morning before she leaves.  I'm not sure why she thinks she should smell like a flower, but I avoid her by running downstairs before she sees me, and cry at the taller animal's door to let me in. I always forget that she can hear me though, and before I know it, I'm cornered by that ungodly stench during the goodbye cuddle.  Luckily, when she comes home later, she smells more like sweaty shoes, and at least I can tolerate her in the same room as me.

Then there are the tall animals.  They are much more rougher with me.  These walking animals get a kick out of slinging my rather healthy torso around in circles and making hideous laughing sounds, as I struggle to my feet and stagger to find my footing.  I return the favor when they chase after me by running them dizzy around the table a few times to see if they tire. Then, just to make sure I get my point across, I sit in the corner and instantaneously shed a tumble weed as their punishment for this atrocity.  

But worst of all, the walking animals don't understand my quest for being at the top and routinely try to thwart my advances. So, when they're not looking, I jump up to my carpeted perch and wait for that perfect moment to land onto the highest point in the room - the writing desk.  This coveted position is all I care about, and I cannot be swayed.  The walking animals usually start screeching at me as I move towards the desk, but I’ll give it a go to see what happens.  I can only hope that one of their nice, warm electronic devices are already waiting for me.  

I scrunch my legs back and catapult myself toward the desk, all the while fiercely spotting my landing. I gracefully touch down on all fours and wait for a second for her response, but luckily the short walking animal is too entranced with her computer (that will soon be mine) rather than worrying about my whereabouts.  So, I meander slowly to a clearing on the smooth surface and slide my belly out from under me with a plop.  So what if a few papers swirl away in the heat of the moment or pencils go flying.  She can pick them up, or I can chase them around the room later.  

As I become more comfortable, I take in the view outside which is quite entertaining.  Birds swirl by.  Butterflies swoon onto petals. Lizards bulge their orange necks. And I am in pure ecstasy.  Well, okay, maybe not totally.  It could only be better if I could stretch my neck over and ever so gently lay my head on that heavenly keyboard that knows how to treat a kitty right.  

First I start with reaching one of my paws out and show the keyboard how my claws are brilliantly aligned.  Of this, I am very proud.  Then, when the walking animal seems mesmerized by her so-called story, I quietly stretch over to my prize and claim a corner as my own.  Most of the time, she seems to think I'm cute.  So, I make sure to scrunch my face up all the more for a better affect.  Then, I crock my head back, to make sure I'm in that irresistible position known as upside down and start purring.  How could she resist this?  I am, by all accounts, absolutely adorable.  And sure enough, I receive my bonus prize and sprawl out as much as I can for the full massage.  I just love it when I finally take over the face of this old oak desk.  It's a good thing it can't breathe, because I'd block off any hopes of respiration.  

All is heavenly, until the walking animal drags me onto her lap.  How demoralizing.  Not only am I not on the highest table in the room, but I am stuck in a coddling position with the only sight being her ugly face as her nose touches mine.  I want to puke from her disgusting breath.  I beg for mercy and round up my legs for another good catapult, but that sneaky witch holds my legs, preventing me from leaping back to the desk or clawing her eyes out.  And why she has to kiss me on my head is beyond me.  Her nasty lips always have a little spittle on them which she leaves behind on my fur that I will have to vigorously clean off later. Look, all I want is my desk.  It's mine, not hers.  I'm not sure why she has to hog it.  It's a perfectly good desk with good bones.

Because she has completely pissed me off, I have no other choice but to hiss.  Yes, I said hiss.  And with full teeth blaring.  I just can't take it anymore.  I hate being held.  I hate being cradled.  I wish I could tell her to go find herself a damn hamster. Instead we engage in a staring contest which she knows I will win, so she forces me down, looking deflated.

And here I sit on the wretched floor once again, resigned to being Sonny, the low-life cat.  That is until the next time she concentrates on her novel.
  

There are two things that are loved in my home.  The first is Jewel, our beloved black lab mix; and the second is baked pumpkin items (and I may have the wrong order).  It never fails that whenever something quite ridiculous has happened (such as finding a bat attached to the car antenna) or maybe even miraculous (like finding the television remote), that there must be some sort of pumpkin prize.  Whether it’s a pie, cupcakes, cheesecake or cookies, my family will pull out all the stops for this coveted prize, even if I say, “It’s not that time of year yet!”

Generally, I do not pull out the fall recipes until October at the earliest, but all year long I’m stalked relentlessly for the taste of pumpkin.  I’m not quite sure why my family has the addiction of sorts, but they try to persuade me with any excuse possible.  Their favorite persuasion has been anywhere from getting better grades in college to feeling more ambitious to perform the various chores that have been on the list for months.  So, having pumpkin pie, in other words, somehow instantaneously turns my two boys and husband into house renovation enthusiasts within an hour.  You’d think that I’d take advantage of this situation, however, I have tried and all I see are a threesome of couch potatoes who end up so full they want to put it off until later when they can better catch their breath. 

But the best persuasion and the one most used, I might add, is that I must bake pumpkin something, anything for the health of my husband’s eyes.  After all, he does have deteriorating vision and must have pumpkin for the vitamins.  The doctor even said so!  And if I refuse, his vision will be irrevocably lost forever and it will only be the mean, non-baking mother to blame.  This is, of course, followed by the exaggerated, sappy look my husband bestows on me to accentuate the need. 

And if this doesn’t work, then I’m usually the victim of a pity party on Facebook. 

Does it work?  Hell no (okay, well sometimes).  And here I am on Labor Day, September 1, 2014, soon to mix up a batch of pumpkin batter for another round of cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.  The pumpkin heads will be lined up for the mixing bowl and spatula oozing with leftovers and soon will have the victory of another year of pumpkin tasting before the season.  There’s only one problem – this time, I offered. 

Hurry up and get here Fall!

Sometimes the strangest things grab my attention when I least expect it.  I’ve known for many years that I have an odd view of the world around me, but I would have never expected that I would become mesmerized by a pair of boots -- cream-colored with laces, like the old-fashioned kind I’ve seen in ancestral family pictures.  I spent an evening watching these boots move on the pedals of a Steinway at the Orchestre Métropolitain in Montreal, Canada on June 13, 2014.  

I didn’t know much about Hélène Grimaud that day, other than she was a pianist who was receiving worldwide acclaim.  Well, maybe, I didn’t even know that, because when they pulled the piano onto the stage, I asked my husband where she would stand.  He then reminded me that she was not a violinist.  I chuckled in embarrassment when I remembered having Chinese takeout a few times while we sat in his den a few months prior and listened to her play piano concertos.  The conversations during those times were poor, as he would start out quite attentive to me, but then he would disappear into the various classical movements with her.  I suppose one could call it a love affair of sorts, as her music drowned out all of my presence, and he escaped into Hélène’s world.

On the night of the concert, we were second row center from the front, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the seats.  I felt they would be too close and would offer little, if any sound acoustics.  Come to find out, the acoustics were fine.  And so was the view.

Hélène walked out onto the stage wearing a sparkly headband and all cream colors that night, including her boots.  I know this because that was my view for the next hour or two.  Sounds less than exciting, I guess, but what ensued during her interpretation of Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor was far from boring. With conductor, Yannick Nézet-Séguin to her side and the L'Orchestre Métropolitain behind her, Hélène moved through each piece with a connection I hadn’t seen from any musician before. 

Immediately before her solos, Hélène’s body moved in a circular, winding pattern.  This was the only time that I could see her expression.  Her head moved back, her eyes closed, and her boots moved forward, readying themselves on top of the pedals. This was followed by a fierce expression over to the conductor, as if she became entranced with the music.  And when she played, that same intensity was transferred to the keys, and her boots moved just as deliberately as she did.

At times, Hélène would be loud, almost rough on the keys, and the boots pounced on the pedals with the same rigor, laces slapping downward.  Other times, Hélène's hands would float ever so gently across the keys, and her boots would become as still and intricate as her melody, lightly touching the pedals and allowing the audience to become more intimate with the piece.  After playing, she would slide her hand down and pull up on the stool, resting and stretching her hands between solos. Her boots would wait also, sometimes slightly tapping the pedals as if making sure of their whereabouts.  Her expression through those boots captured me, just as strongly as her playing, and I remember thinking that I was looking at a true virtuoso -- one who had a talent that was unmistakable and without question. 

I've heard numerous other solo artists before, but I have never heard someone as gifted as Hélène.  This time, I went on the journey into her world with my husband, but I think I’m probably the only one in the audience who was also mesmerized by her boots.  Thank you to Hélène, for sharing her gift of music, as well as the passion, no matter what the view.  Guess I will never mistake her for a violinist again.

For pictures from practice sessions and this concert, see:  https://www.flickr.com/photos/orchestremetropolitain/sets/72157644800464899/

For future concert information, see her website at:  http://helenegrimaud.com

The Writing Desk Saga (see "A Cat with a View" and "A Jewel of a View" for the sequels)

I seem to be good for several things including holding paper, pens and books of all flavors. For providing storage. A place to lay the newspaper. I am my writer’s old oak desk. We do not speak, but how I wish I could. She sits at me in the early morning sometimes with a laptop, sometimes with a pad. I hold her glasses, coffee mug and phone. And I support her as she writes for hours.

Today is the same. She hums as she sets up on my surface, brushing off pesky cat hair that has accumulated on me from a nuisance named “Sonny” and gently scolds this beast who’s blobbing out next to me on his feline post. She stares out the window at obnoxious birds who race by to find a perch in the trees prior to scooping down to the feeder before another has a chance. She mentions how she loves the old oak outside despite being crooked from age and the yard of green which causes her nothing but hours of labor. And she pets the useless, long-haired dog that loves to brush up against me, half the time with a wet nose that on a good morning doesn’t land on my leg. It’s downright inexcusable for all of these distractions to be bothering my writer at such important times, but alas, I cannot help, or do, or say anything. I am her desk. I am the unseen, unappreciated support, but I would rather be nothing else.

She plugs away at her characters and settings for an hour after things settle down and is now in full concentration mode. Her writing is going well. She’s living life through her characters, acting out scenes and feverishly jotting down lines. She’s talking to herself in jubilation, as if defendant Johnny Goldchild is pacing in the room or young Emma Fairsworth is running around. These are my favorite times.  

But as usual, this wonderfully serene time has to be interrupted by a cat paw that has just rested on my side and provides a perfect catapulting position for landing onto my shiny top only to bother my writer. With its purrs and cuddles, that puff ball Sonny ends up interrupting the flow and ruining the blow by blow scenes that are now nothing but a blur. And what does my writer do? Pets him once again. It is quite beyond me how these forced break times are acceptable by her, but it never fails that she inevitably and disgustingly baby talks him and lets his oversized body lay on mine with a tail whipping around like a viper ready to damage my almost pristine 50-year-old surface. I may have a ding or two on my curves, but overall, this old lady is in good shape.

Thank goodness, eventually, she tires of the cat and shoos him off so we can get back to business, wiping his hair onto the floor again that she’ll have to clean up later. She’ll then usually go back into her world for a few more hours, but now it seems she’s lost it. Her elbows are on me with her head in her hands, trying to find the characters again. When she gives up, she peers out the window. She sips on her coffee. She calls the dog. But she never notices me.  The one that is the old standby. The one she leans on. Her one constant.

I wish I could tell her to keep going. To not be discouraged. That it will all come together like it always does. To not listen to those annoying birds or be distracted by the view or the pets. But I know she’ll never hear me. All I can do is stand strong, holding her up when she needs it, providing support for her elbows, arms and various beverages.

She gets up from her chair and I know she’s going to leave. She looks out the window, then to the pets. She grabs her coffee and glasses with a sigh. Typical behavior for when my writer is frustrated. But then, something happens that never happens. She pauses before me and runs her fingers across the front of my surface. She grins ever so slightly and says, “Thank you, my old friend.” She finally sees me.

As she walks away, I can’t help but think better of that tub-o-lard cat and maybe his slight usefulness. After all, he’s just trying to comfort her, I suppose. And I guess I can see her attraction to our beautiful backyard and the nature that goes along with it, though I could live without the relentless chirps and thoughtless singing. But, they get her for only short moments in time. I, on the other hand, have the honor of her leaning on me every morning. And I will always be here to support her.

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I bet you will never look at your desk the same again. Next time, you might want to consider giving it a hug. ;-) Sandie