Orange Cat Chaos Energy
A scrappy new era of storytelling, Beyoncé stanning, and orange cat chaos energy.
I wrote this in my morning pages notebook, but these are technically not morning pages words. As of this writing, it is just after one in the afternoon and I’ve been up for over six hours. And I’ve already written other things today. So these are not my first or freshest thoughts. Nevertheless, she persisted. So here I am and here we are.
It has been one month since I last Cowboy Carter’d. And tomorrow will be one month since I was catless. I don’t know that I’ve properly mentioned or acknowledged either of those life events. I know for sure that I haven’t said anything here (Substack, not my morning pages) about my trip to New York. So boy-oh-boy — Dear Reader, there’s a lot to catch up on. And also… not really. Because life be life’n for everybody and my little day-to-day happenings aren’t really that special or interesting. Definitely not the reason anyone is subscribed.
Nothing that happens to me is that different or interesting. What (I think) makes me worth spending time with via real life and reading is how I process things — and how that processing shows. It’s how I live and move and have my being. And so these long spells of silence, the word droughts are not because nothing is happening, or because I have nothing to say. They’re because I don’t know how — and haven’t found the time or energy — to properly format it for proper consumption by proper people such as yourselves.
Example: right this minute this could go in multiple directions. I could talk about why AI doesn’t scare me. I could talk about why Tyler Perry does. Or I could tell you about how I saw my nemesis — the summer English teacher — in real life a week ago. Any one of those narratives could loop back to the point of this one, which is that I have decided to give in and just be unhinged.
So welcome to my completely without hinge era.
What’s it gonna look like? Only Jod knows for sure. But it’s gonna be very scrappy.
Literally. Y’all don’t know how much I hate writing. And it’s why I have stopped referring to myself as a writer. I’m a storyteller. And I resent the way we have been corralled and indoctrinated into accepting such narrow expressions of that art.
I wrote those first 300-some-odd words during the half hour gap I had before my next class. And now I’m back, picking it up just after six, sitting in the backyard watching Foxtopher Carter Lagata aka Fox run around — hoping he burns off some of his orange cat chaos energy.
