It’s the witching hour — for my cats.
I make a psst — like a tire losing air — when they chomp the plant or swipe at the dream catcher’s feathers. I release the sound sharply and they drop what they’re doing, ears perked, staring. A stare that says, We’re not doing anything.
Because I’m not scooping the stinky litter box this very second, I draped a light blanket over the opening. Relax — they can still get in. I will clean it. But writing, ever the mistress, asked nicely to be tended to first.
To talk about the cats? I ask incredulously.
Yes, the cats, she says, lacing her fingers through mine.
In no particular order, here are yesterday’s Notes app fragments:
What you do can send me into existential dread.
Can we trick our brains into thinking the sheets are freshly laundered?
Bio idea: Our goal is interdependence. Both of us in the dark, breaking toward light. I need you as you need me.
There’s also a line I wrote months ago. I’ll jot it down here so I can delete it:
She licked her lips. The action nipped at the heels of her comment. A smugness, a pride. She didn’t reveal all her cards but—
Shall we start with clean sheets?
Can we agree they’re the fabric of life? Proof of goodness and divinity — their warmth, their smell, the way they brush against us like it’s the first time. Since daily laundering isn’t realistic — unless someone’s wiring us absurd money — is there a hack to overwrite our brain’s knowledge and make it believe they’re fresh?
So far: no. I’ve tried.
The illusion is impressive — like sawing a woman in half. We gasp at the box’s clean separation. But when there’s no blood pooling at the magician’s feet, we’re right back in ordinary land.
Without progress notes at this ungodly hour, I’m left with free time. Guilt-free time. And with writing nearly done, and loose ends tightened (I did conquer the litter box), I’m mulling.
Do I watch the Olympics? They’re on at strange hours anyway.
Read my suspense novel with a cat pressed to my ribs?
Or go back to bed?
I’d rather nap later today than disrupt the early-morning spell with sleep. Feet on the ground at 4:45 a.m., if you’re wondering.
That hour only works because of a before 10pm bedtime. After Evelyn’s before-bed book — four chapters of The BFG — my yawns rise up, and I swat down any late-night ambition.
One last thought.
Speeding up rarely helps. For people with trauma, panic, bodies prone to dysregulation — slowing down is the antidote.
TSA comes to mind. Two recent stories. One person who was getting barked at by an agent: Do this. Do this. Do this. Dizzy, they said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa — I’m old.” And it worked; they changed their behavior.
Another person I know went inward. Don’t make a scene. Just comply. Feeling rushed. Being shocked and hating the patdown’s touch. Then, for days after, they were left with a lingering, unsettled gross feeling.
It shocks me that TSA isn’t trained more deeply in trauma-informed care. In consent. In touch.
Part of me wants to wage war. Or maybe I can make a TikTok and let someone louder carry it further. Yeah, I think I’ll do that.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 