LOSING THE PLOT 2

New WordPress format…forgive how it looks…have I mentioned how much I loath new new ‘forced’ formats?

I am a writer and therefore always concerned with ‘plot,’ (the plan, scheme, or main story of a literary or dramatic work). If I think of my life as a dramatic work…and in 2020 isn’t everyone’s life a drama-rich work?…than I must pay attention to the plot, mustn’t I? Increasingly it seems the Marjorie-plot is getting harder to find…in fact, I’m almost positive I have lost it: to lose one’s ability to understand or cope with what is happening)
 
In case you’ve been away…in another galaxy perhaps…we humans are murdering our one and only planet; the U.S. has a greedy and certifiably-crazy narcissistic sociopath for a president; and then there’s that silly pandemic killing a whole bunch of people all over the world. Closer to home: I am moving, a happy move but nevertheless nerve-wracking; my California son who was coming to help has a wrecked knee; my friend’s sister’s house burned down in a Colorado fire; perhaps my art center will never come back to life; the big amazing glorious African journey of 2021 is looking iffy; the book I’m writing is a huge chaotic mess … and did I mention I’m old and at the poorish end of the 99%.
 
Can you see how my life’s ‘plot’ might disappear?
 
Phew…feel much better. Got all that out of my system. Anyone who reads this may legitimately bill me for therapy services.
 
Up at 4am…harder to sleep these days/nights/whatever isn’t it?  I’m going to try, for therapeutic purposes, to blog-journal each day. I do that anyway in endless calendar books and diaries so may as well utilize a form requiring me to waste time searching the thesaurus for just the right adjective to describe my sense of the day’s hopelessness. And I’ll need to take just the right photo to accompany my post. 
 
For now…I looked up poems about bafflement…because I am baffled (totally bewildered or perplexed)  by everything…the world, my country, me. Here’s one that popped up by TS Eliot. Good enough for me, especially since I’m often self-medicating with crime and mystery novels: Macavity: The Mystery Cat. I WISH I HAD A CAT. 
 
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair: For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there! Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity, He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare, And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there! You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air-- But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there! Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin; You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed; His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake; And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square-- But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there! He's outwardly respectable.
(They say he cheats at cards.
) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair-- Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there! And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair-- But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: "It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare: And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
 

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