Where is my motivation?

Well, it has been missing over the past two weeks.  Actual living can erase all thoughts of death and dying.  For most, that is kind of a good thing.  Why worry about it?

For me, it is not so good.  I am supposed to be pounding out the pages on my manuscript, but lately I haven't been motivated to do so.  I've had sick kids, I adopted an adorable little kitten who is hell bent on destroying every piece of furniture I own, and my actual day job has been demanding lately.

But, that all ended yesterday.  In August, I contacted a death row inmate named Khristian Oliver.  My reason?  A death row inmate is the only person, besides someone intent on killing themselves, who actually knows the date and approximate time of their death.  When I polled people about knowing when they were going to die, most said they'd rather not know.  So, I was curious.  Mr. Oliver didn't scare me.  Yes, he killed someone (and no I don't condone killing people) but there was something about him that made me feel I could approach him.  So, I wrote him a letter.  He replied and politely declined to be interviewed.  I accepted that and didn't pursue anyone else.  It's a weird line of questioning I'm going after and quite frankly, it's an uncomfortable spot to be in.

Yesterday, I got a letter from him out of the blue.  It actually made me cry.  It was simple and straightforward and honest.  Without him actually saying it, I saw his loss of hope.  He has accepted his fate.

Now I am desperately trying to figure out the best way to interview him.  Time is running out. His execution date is November 5, 2009.

Grief

If you click on the title, there was an interesting article stating that prolonged grief is now considered a mental disorder.


I don't have much to say.  I'm still grieving about my cat Spooky.


Hey, will you vote in my poll?

Goodbye

There is something about the presence of a cat that seems to take the bite out of being alone.  ~Louis J. Camuti

      After failing at my first attempt at college, I was once again living with my mother.  She was not particularly happy about this arrangement and was counting the days until I would get my shit together and get the hell out of her two- bedroom condo.  Instead of leaving, I dug in my heels and adopted a cat.  There was an ad in the paper under animals that stated in bold dramatic typeface, “Adopt or Die!”  My, god, I thought, I must save this poor animal from a cruel and untimely demise.  The truth was, I was lonely.  Somehow I thought that adopting a cute little needy kitty would fill the void left by my first boyfriend.

     I immediately drove to the house to check out the death row kitties.  They were five of them, all black and spastic, clamoring for my attention on the living room floor.  That is, all except one.  He was cool and ambivalent about my presence.  He couldn’t even bring himself to look at me.  Like the men I was attracted to at the time, he was perfect.  You don’t want me?  Well guess what Mr. Nonchalance, I’m going to take your flea ridden ass home and make you like me. 

     Our first night together wasn’t the greatest.  He hid under my bed and tried to swipe at my ankles every time I passed by.  The only time he wanted to be near me was when I began eating my mom’s tuna casserole as a smelly enticement to come hither. Upon sniffing the aroma of my odorous dinner, he clawed his way up the white eyelet bedspread and proceeded to bat the fork out of my hand, causing tuna and noodles to fly across my room.  Our love affair began.

RIP

Spooky aka "Pooty"

March 1989 - September 22, 2009