iamacatsketches

[iamacatsketches]

Public Benches

[1]

Let me tell you of another time the humans had demonstrated their selfishness.

Master and Waverhouse were talking on the couch as they usually are and I happen to overhear their conversation from atop the shelf.

“You know, on my way from work I saw a young couple, can’t be any older than in their early twenties kissing in the Park.” My master began his bitter dialogue.

“I don’t quite see where you are going with this…”

“Isn’t it quite an eyesore?” My master asked hoping to get a reaction out of Waverhouse.

“Love is in the air.” Said Waverhouse nonchalantly. “And besides, it’s a public park on a nice day, surely people are just trying to enjoy a public space and take on the warm sun now that it’s spring again.”

“That’s the thing isn’t it?” My master interjected, still with his air of bitterness. “It’s like they don’t care at all about others around them”

“What? Is old man Sneaze jealous of young love?” Waverhouse teased.

“Not at all” Master lied, unconvincingly.

He was indeed a bitter loveless man so long as I’ve been here. I don’t think he has ever brought any woman over or if I so dare as far as to say gone on any dates. All he does is after school he comes straight home and lie down on the couch and attempt to read one of his books. Then he would fall asleep. He would be on his laptop watch the telly or play games on his Xbox but I never actually seen him actually make an effort to meet anyone. He would now and then complain that he is alone but never really make any effort to go out and meet anyone. And all the people that he sees are usually just the same two or three people, even me a mere cat could easily keep track of all the friends that my master has.

“Then what is it that is so bothering you?”

“It’s just decency, you know? Keep it to behind walls that sort of thing. It’s pathetic, it’s pitiful they way some people act in public, without all regards towards others.”

My master, again showing all the signs of hypocrisy. I don’t see why he should get upset over other people’s doings. He raises his nose high on the matter of pitifulness and yet fail to see that his judgement itself is pitiful. Who is he to dictate what or where other people do or not do. It is yet again this human selfishness. He thinks he is so superior casting judgement on people just enjoying their lives as if he has any kind of authority on such matter.

“You’ve got to learn to see the beauty in young love” Waverhouse pointed out.

“Young love, bah, do you hear yourself, flames eventually die and soon dreams of happy life together children and all the lovie dubby feelings butterflies in their stomachs will die with it.”

“Says a man who never properly loved, Sneaze” Waverhouse pointed out, grounding my master back to reality. “They will surely relish these little moments, and besides, its not like we’d like to be able to act the same from time to time.

Bitterness only gets you so far Sneaze, enjoy life, and one day you might eventually find someone and become the thing you hate today.”

My master chuckles at the prospects of acting the same at his age.

1 Inspired by a song by Georges Brassens called Les Amoureux des Bancs Publics

[iamacatsketches]

The Chair

I have by now established that my master is not a very intelligent man, generally outwitted by everyone around him including me, a mere house cat. Sometimes I will annoy him for the sake of annoying him. There is of course a vast amount of pleasure to be had from annoying a human being especially one as dimwitted as my master. However I generally like to think that me and my master’s interactions are for the most part considerate an act out of respect of both parties involved. I don’t walk on my master’s back out of ill intent of wanting to disturb his siesta the same way he doesn’t disturb me when I’m sleeping on the couch. Sometimes it is indeed just because we live in the same household and compete for the same limited resources and my master being a selfish human tend to use his unrightfully given brute force to get his way.

Let me tell you of a story when my master got creative and actually used his brain.

Master did not like that I am at the desk, but that's half the fun of it. Master would sit in the chair at his desk for an extended period of time creating a nice warm spot on the chair. He would then leave to make himself a cup of tea in the kitchen and that's when I strike. After master left the room I would take my spot on the nicely warmed up chair. After master returned seeing the chair occupied, he would usually take his laptop and work somewhere else.

Today was no different. Master left the chair and I went to sit in it. However, this time when master returned, he look at me, looked at the occupied chair, and placed his tea down on the desk. He then proceed to pull the chair out and start to roll it all over the room. I find this quite thrilling and scary at the same time. Furniture wooshing by left and right, then sudden stop and start, he'd even spin the chair around a few times. This is all quite exhilarating. Then I start to get dizzy, our eyes are meant to focus on fast objects, not be the fast object. Master would now and then stop the chair, but the world around me would still keep on moving. The chair would stop spinning but would feel like it is still spinning. I eventually had enough and jumped off the chair. And that is how master learned to take his chair back.

[iamacatsketches]

An Introduction to Coldmoon

Coldmoon is a former student of my master, after graduation he went to university and went on to achieve a higher station than my master ever could. For reason unbeknownst to me, he still calls from time to time. When he is here, he always has something to tell. Sometimes he seems to be attracted to a certain lady, other times not; sometimes the world is interesting, other times boring. Life is sometimes dreadful other times beautiful; sometimes love is in the air and other times not, and then he just leaves. I never understood why such a man would seek out someone as aloof as my master. My poor master just listens and nod along to whatever Coldmoon has to say. Coldmoon is in a way, just like my master, stuck in a constant academic limbo. He is working on a doctorate thesis, but never seem to be getting anywhere, one would begin to think that he’d never complete his PhD. He is a wandering soul living life with no purpose and yet stuck in his constant state of will-he-woun’t-he.

“Apologies, it’s been a while hasn’t it since my last visit. I was busy, going here and there all over the place.” He began vaguely.

“Where have you been to?” My master asked earnestly while tugging on the arms of his over-shirt. Over years of abuse the wool had shrunk, and the shirt doesn’t fit well any more. The sleeves are just about too short that they bunched together when he moves his arm.

“Well, funny story that, I was eating mushrooms.”

“Well apparently everywhere but here.” He said with a cheeky grin. Showing that one of his front teeth is missing.

"What happened to your tooth?" My master changed the subject.

“You ate what?”

“I had some mushrooms. I went to bite through the cap and one of my tooth fell out.”

“Losing your tooth to a mushroom, that’s a bit of an old man thing now innit. Might be some poetic irony there somewhere, but I doubt anything flattering.” He said as he tapped my head with the palm of his hand.

“Oh, it that the aforementioned cat of yours. He’s grown quite big now hasn’t he. Soon he’ll be a match to Blacky”, he praised.

“He’s got quite big these days.” My master said while tapping me on the head. I welcomed the praise, but my head is starting to hurt.

Yet, despite his missing tooth, Coldmoon is an attractive young man, unlike my master, in his thirties and still living alone with his cat. Amongst these two, I would think that master is the odd one. I don’t know so as to why master would remain so reclusive even with the influence of someone like Coldmoon, though being the clueless man that he is, a doubt that in the end Coldmoon would end up any better in the dating scene. Is it then his weak stomach, or his timid nature and the lack of means that holds master back I would never know.

1. Adapted from chapter 2

[iamacatsketches]

The Painting Episode

[1]

One day master returned home with a paper bag full of stuff from the arts supply store. Painting pallets, Whatman paper, various brushes pencil and paint. For some reason he has decided to pick up painting. I am not one to doubt him, but master was never the aesthetic type. In fact, I don’t think he could even draw let alone paint. He is definitely more of the kind of person to write. He was quite enthusiastic. The even skipped his usual afternoon siestas and stayed up painting. Painting is a strong word to describe what he is doing, more so making random scribbles onto a sketchbook. The following days, after school he would come home and scribble into this sketchbook of his, but alas, despite all his efforts, it would go nowhere. He would draw something on his sketchbook, sigh and then turn the page to start over. This is the general routine of his. Then he tossed the sketchbook onto the bed. I suspect he himself thought little of his work and began to doubt his efforts.

One day his co-worker and philosopher friend came over.

“You know, this whole drawing business, it’s quite hard ain’t it. It looked easy enough. You would think with a few Yewtoob tutorials that you would be able to draw amazing things, but that’s just not true. Once the pencil is moving it just ain’t never quite right.” Said my master feeling quite down.

His friend lifted his glasses and said “It’s only natural for you to not be good at it when you start something. Besides, you don’t start drawing from nothing now, do you? You start from sketching something you can see be it a picture or a model.”

“Like the Italian master Andrea del Sarto once said, if you want to paint a picture, always depict nature as she is. In the sky, there are stars. On earth, there are sparkling dews. Birds are flying. Animals are running. In a pond there are fish. On an old tree one sees winter crows. Nature herself is one vast living picture.”

“You see, if you want to draw well, try to find a subject or an inspiration of sorts, learn the shapes and the forms from there, then you can try to paint whatever your heart desires.”

“Oh, Andrea del Sarto said that? [2] I guess that’s true.” Master responded, impressed.

I could smell the bullshit from the shelf, even if said bullshit was metaphorical.

The next day while I was having a nap on the sofa, master appeared, notebook in hand along with other supplies.

I got a sharp sense of dread for what is to come. I was quite impressed at master for his perseverance, although a bit annoyed that he has now decided to bother me in his antics again.

He sat down on the carpet and began to draw on his sketchbook. He was in such focus hands moving furiously looking sharply at his sketchbook, then at me. He was practically killing himself trying to be Andrea del Sarto. The sight was in a way, quite hilarious, like a little child discovering a new toy. I could not help but laugh. It is quite adorable. He was sketching me just because he got his leg pulled by a friend. In a way I should be delighted that he chose me as a subject, but alas, I couldn’t. I had already slept enough and just like anyone just awoken I was itching to yawn. But seeing my master sketch so earnestly, I hadn’t the heart to move. So I bore it with resignation.

Master sat there on the carpet sketching for quite a while until finally he put down his pencil. I sighed of relief. Then he whipped out his water colouring set. I sighed. He began painting my head.

Cat paintings are not a rare sight at all. In fact, most probably wouldn’t bat an eye at a painting of me, any other way they would look at other cats anyway, but however ugly I may look, I bore no resemblance to the thing that master had captured on the page of his sketchbook. First of all, my fur bears tortoiseshell markings on a ground of yellowish pale grey. However, the way master painted, the colour is all wrong. It was neither yellow nor brown, nor a mixture of any colour in particular, rather it’s that colour you’d get when you mixed all the colours on a pallet together. Now, master is no Picasso, but I’d expect a man in his thirties to be able to paint within the lines. Furthermore, and very oddly, my face lacks eyes or whiskers or anything resembling a shape for that matter. Now, the lack of eyes can be excused on the grounds that it is a sketch of a sleeping cat; but all the same since one cannot fine even the hint of the eye’s location, or the location of anything for that matter. I thought to myself, this will not do, even for Andrea del Sarto.

However, I could not help by admire master’s grim determinations. Had it been solely up to me, I would gladly maintain my pose for him, but just like anyone who had woken up from a long nap, nature has now been calling for some time. The muscles in my body are getting numb. I stretched my front paws far out in front of me, pushed my neck out low and yawned cavernously. Having done all that, there’s no further point in trying to stay still. Master’s sketch was spoiled from the get-go, I might as well go to the litter-box and do my business. So I sluggishly walked away. Immediately “You fool” came shouted at me in master’s voice, a mixture of disappointment and anger from the living room. He has a habit of saying “you fool” when he curses at anyone. He cannot help it since he knows no other swear words. I found it rather impertinent to be unjustifiably called “a fool” just because one needs to go urinate. Of course this is natural of humans. They are by their nature egocentric and would not be able to understand what anything or anyone else other than themselves are thinking. Unless some creatures more powerful than humans arrive on earth to teach humans a lesson, there’s just no knowing to what dire lengths their foolish presumptuousness will eventually carry them.

About a week later he realised his total incapacity as an artist.

“You know, I met a man whom I could imply had a fast life. Looks very much a material man, Omicron watch and the likes. Or rather I should probably say that he has been forced to lead such a fast life. I heard that his wife was some kind of actress. He is to be envied. For the most part, those who carp at rakes are those incapable of debauchery. Further, many of those who fancy themselves as rakehells are equally incapable of debauchery. Such folk are under no obligation to live fast lives, but do so of their own volition. As so do I in the matter of painting. Neither of us will ever make the grade, but certainly this type of debauchee makes It certain that he is truly the man of the world. If one becomes a man of the world by drinking at restaurants, or by frequenting houses of assignation, then it would seem to follow that I could acquire a name by watercolours. Would my paintings be better had I not painted them? Or would it be in fact better to just be a plain old Joe than some foolish men of the world?” He said to me.

His observation about his so-called men of the world strike me as somewhat unconvincing. In particular his confessions of envy in respects to that actress wife is positively imbecile and unworthy of a teacher. Nevertheless, his assessment of the value of his own watercolour painting is just. Master is a good judge of his own character but still managed to retain his vanity.

Three days later he said, “You know, I dreamt last night that someone had picked up a painting that I have rejected and tossed away. This person put the painting in a splendid frame and hung it up on a transom. Staring at my work thus framed, I realized that I have suddenly become a true artist. I was quite pleased. I spend whole days just staring at my handiwork, happy in the conviction that the picture is a masterpiece. Dawn broke and I woke up, in the morning sunlight it was obvious that the picture was still as pitiful an object as when I painted it.”

The master, even in his dreams, seems burdened with regrets about his watercolours. And men who accept the burdens of regret, whether in respect of watercolours or of anything else, are not the stuff that men of the world are made of.

The next day his friend Waverhouse paid a visit and inquired about the endeavour.

“How’s painting coming along?”

“Well, I took your advice… Sketched a bit. You know, when one sketches, one seem to begin to understand the shapes of things better, one begins to understand delicate changes of colour and tones which hitherto had gone unnoticed. I take it that sketching has developed to its present remarkable condition solely as the result of the emphasis which, historically, has always there been placed upon the essentiality thereof. Precisely as Andrea del Sarto once observed.”

Waverhouse scratched his head and remarked with a chuckle.

“You know, the thing about Andrea del Sarto was my own invention.”

“What was?” Still failing to grasp that he has been tricked into making a fool of himself.

“You know, all the things about Andrea del Sarto that you admired so much? I made it up. Never thought you’d take it seriously. Sometimes I cook up a little nonsense and people take it seriously, which generates an aesthetic sensation of extreme comicality which I find interesting.”

“The other day, I told a certain undergraduate that Nicholas Nickleby had advised Gibbon to cease using French for the writing of his masterpiece, The History of the French Revolution, and had indeed persuaded Gibbon to publish it in English. Now this undergraduate was a man of almost eidetic memory, and it was especially amusing to hear him repeating what I told him, word for word and in all seriousness, to a debating session of the Literary Society. And you know, there were nearly a hundred in his audience, and all of them sat listening to his drivel with the greatest enthusiasm!”

“In fact, I’ve another, even better, story. The other day, when I was in the company of some men of letters, one of them happened to mention Theophany Ainsworth’s historical novel of the Crusades. I took the occasion to remark that it was a quite outstanding romantic monograph and added the comment that the account of the heroine’s death was the epitome of the spectral. The man sitting opposite to me, one who has never uttered the three words ‘I don’t know,’ promptly responded that those particular paragraphs were indeed especially fine writing. From which observation I became aware that he, no more than I, had ever read the book.”

“What would you do if he, in fact, had read the book?” Master asked, not being concerned about the deception but rather the embarrassment of being caught in a lie.

“Well, I’ll bullshit I’m sure one could make something interesting along the lines that I had mistaken the tittle or something like that.” He answered, unconcerned, and gave himself a small chuckle. “And you being you, you can’t even get watercolours right. But joking aside painting is a difficult thing.”

“Something Leonardo da Vinci is supposed to have once told his pupils to make drawings of a stain on the Cathedral wall. The words of a great teacher. In a lavatory for instance, if absorbedly one studies the pattern of the rain leaks on the wall, a staggering design, a natural creation, invariably emerges. You should keep your eyes open and try drawing from nature.”

“Another jest”

“No; this one, I promise, is seriously meant. Indeed, I think that that image of the lavatory wall is really rather witty, don’t you? Quite the sort of thing da Vinci would have said.”

“Yes, it’s certainly witty. Master reluctantly conceded.” I just hope I wouldn’t be seeing him sitting on the bathroom floor doing a painting of the walls anytime soon.

1. This is an adaptation of the original episode in chapter 1: Soseki Natsume, I Am a Cat, trans. Aiko Ito (Tuttle Publishing, 1905).

2. Natsume Soseki indeed said that.

[iamacatsketches]

An Introduction to Waverhouse

A loud buzz coming out of nowhere startled me. Of course, the logical action is to hide so I went to the first spot I could find: under the sofa. This sound introduced new people who would appear from the door to the outside. Master got up and went to open the door.

“Oh, did the doorbell startle you?”

That's right, the so call sound is called the 'doorbell'. I don't know whether there's something wrong with that bell but to me, that bell is more of a buzz. Bells are supposed to be shiny and bright. This sounds more like lingering doom.

On the other side of the door was a large, well-dressed man, quite taller than the master, with a confident and almost overbearing voice.

“Afternoon.” He said.

“Don't you have anywhere better to be?” Said my master.

This is the general routine that these two have every time he comes over master would go along the lines of "Why are you here" and Waverhouse would invite himself in and make himself comfortable on the sofa. Professor Waverhouse is Master's friend. He's a teacher, but I don't see him as much of a teaching type. He's more of a rambling type. He would go on and on about these ideas and thought exercises. This man teaches philosophy, whatever that may mean. Master and this man would sit around and talk of this so-called philosophy. I still don't really understand what exactly they are talking about beyond pointing out the obvious or rambling about seemingly random stuff. I guess it's one of these subjects that few would understand the true essence of, or one of those things that only the educated practice. Which is a shame for so much of what they seem to talk about is knowledge and nature of the world, it would be such a shame for only few could understand such knowledge. Or it could just be that these educated men just make philosophy so boring or they talk in such a way that most simply do not understand their "educated speech" so to say.

Although I have the attention span of a cat I'm still a cat that's used to staring out the window for hours at a time looking at nothing having the large man here does give a nice change of pace and it's not like I have anything better to do.

[iamacatsketches]

The Maestro of the Water-Closet

One of the most surreal experiences I’ve had early on while I’ve been in this flat for only a while involved one of master’s antics. At night master would lock himself in the bathroom and I would begin to hear horrible noises coming from inside followed by the sound of water raining.

The first time I witnessed this ritual was the same day that I arrived. At that point I was just getting comfortable in this apartment. I’ve been fed and found a few nice spots to sleep in, mainly the sofa, the bed and the armchair, I haven’t yet discovered my favourite spot, the top of the shelf as that required a bit more skill to get to which kitten me just did not possess yet.

I was making myself comfortable on the sofa on the nice warm spot where master was sitting. The warm spot was a magical phenomena that only happens when a human has sat somewhere for a long period of time. I was curled up on this warm spot about to fall asleep when I saw master enter the bathroom. What follows was a traumatising experience, unmatched by anything for a long time.

First, I hear a horrible screeching noise. It was trying to pronounce a word of some sorts, or at least according to my knowledge of hindsight, is supposed to be words.

The words don’t sound like word’s and even when I now know what they are supposed to be my younger self would never have thought that those were words.

I was quite shocked, I thought master was going to be consumed by the owner of this sound. I thought it would be sad to end up as a cat without a home or a master again now having known the luxury of food in my bowl and a warm place to sleep, but then I learned that the source of this horrid noise was in fact master. Master would screech in the lavatory terrible sounds while taking a shower, something that luckily cats seldom need. I could not imagine myself producing such a noise.

The fact that the first time I heard this ritual master was singing Evanescence's Lithium probably did not make it any easier to understand this shameless ritual of his. Hearing this for the first time was traumatic.

Master is no singer, that is quite obvious very quickly, but in the shower he still sings without care in the world. I wonder what it is with humans and showers where they would subject themselves to such embarrassment. What is it with this so-called shower that gave him such confidence to sing such horridly. Now, I do have to admit that in the end, master does sing better in the shower. Something about that enclosed place is truly magical; alas, not even magic could fix master’s horrible singing voice.

[iamacatsketches]

Prologue

I am a cat. As yet I have no name. I have no idea where I was born. All I remember was that I was meowing in a dark and damp place, when for the first time, I saw a human. This human, I heard afterwards, was a member of the most ferocious human species; a student. I hear that on occasion, this species will catch, boil and eat us. However at the time, I lacked the knowledge of such creature, and thus I did not feel particularly frightened.

I felt myself being lifted up into his palm. When I got out of the confusion I saw his face. It was the first time I have set my eyes on a human being. For a young kitten, the impression is something that stayed with me to this day. For starters, his face, that should be decorated with hair is as bald as a kettle. Having never seen anything like it before, to me at the time it was such a deformity that took getting used to.

The creature petted me gently and I meowed. It eventually put me down on a patch of grass and left. Just like when I once had a basket full of brothers, now no one could be seen. Just like my mother, the student had gone. Moreover I now found myself in a painfully bright place most unlike that nook where once I’d sheltered. It was in fact so bright that I could hardly keep my eyes open. Sure that there was something wrong, I began to crawl about. Which proved painful. I thought what to do next, nothing. It came to me that if I cried, the student might come back. Soon the clouds grew darker and the wind grew colder. I felt extremely hungry. I wanted to cry, but was too weak to do so. There was nothing to be done. However having decided that I need to find food and shelter, I turned, very slowly around. It was extremely painful. Nevertheless, I persevered and crawled on somehow until at long last I reached a place where my nose picked up some trace of human presence. I tried some feeble mewing, but no one came. Soon a light wind blew across the field and it began to grow dark. I felt extremely hungry. I wanted to cry, but I was too weak to do so. There was nothing to be done. However, having decided that I simply must find food, I turned, very, very slowly, left around the field. It was extremely painful going. Nevertheless, I persevered and crawled on somehow until at long last I reached a place where my nose picked up some trace of human presence.

I slipped into a property through a gap in a broken fence, thinking that something might turn up once I got inside. It was sheer chance; if the wooden fence had not been broken just at that point, I might have starved to death at the roadside. I realise now how true the adage is that what is to be will be. Well, though I had managed to creep into the property, I had no idea what to do next. Soon it got really dark. I was hungry, it was cold and rain began to fall. I could not afford to lose any more time. I had no choice but to struggle toward a place which seemed, since, brighter, warmer. I did not know it then, but I was in fact already inside the building where I now had a chance to observe further specimens of humankind. The first one that I met was the groundskeeper, one of a species yet more savage than the student. No sooner had he seen me than he grabbed me by the scruff and flung me out of the property. Accepting that I had no hope, I lay stone still, my eyes shut tight and trusting to Providence. But the hunger and the cold were more than I could bear. Seizing a moment when the groundskeeper had relaxed his watch, I crawled up once again in to the school building. I was soon flung out again. I crawled up yet again, only to be flung out yet again. I remember that the process was several times repeated. Ever since that time, I have been utterly disgusted with this groundskeeper person. As I was about to be flung out for the last time, master appeared, complaining of the noise and demanding an explanation. The groundskeeper lifted me up, turned my face to master and said, “This little stray kitten is being a nuisance. I keep putting it out and it keeps crawling back inside.” The master briefly studied my face. Then, “In that case, I’ll take it” he said. The master seemed to be a person of few words. Master took me from the groundskeeper and placed me in the pocket of his coat.

His coat pocket was warm and cosy compared to the alley that I was in. He brought me out of the school grounds and down a set of stairs into a dark and noisy tunnel of sorts. The tunnel was a busy place filled with people. I got scared and retreated into the coat pocket. I did not know what happened next but I heard a loud rumbling noise and a high pitched squeeze. I thought we would be dead. I eventually gathered up the courage to poke my head out of his pocket. We were crammed into a small room with all these other humans. I’ve never seen so many human packed in such a small space. Some were seated down and some were standing holding on to poles and weird loops and rails hanging on the sealing. It was quite a horrifying experience, one that at the time, almost made me regret coming home with master. I realised over the constant loud humming and vibrations around me that we are in fact moving. Then a loud female voice echoed through chamber. I looked around for the source of that voice only to find nothing. The voice was static and emotionless. To this day I still do not know what kind of human could sound like that. The voice would sound several times throughout the journey, and every time I would see no one as the source of that voice. I eventually got used to the loud humming and the voice, the constant starting and stopping and the fact that I was quite comfortable curled up as a small kitten in the coat pocket that I fell asleep. Every chance I get I still try to climb in to the pocket for that same level of comfort but alas I could no longer fit.

I was awoken when master grabbed me from his coat pocket and placed me on the floor. Cracked open a can of tuna and placed some in a small bowl for me. Compared to normal cat food the tuna was magnificent. It was salty and moist in all the right ways. And it was thus that I came to make this house my dwelling.

Master lives alone and seldom goes out apart from going to school. I hear he is a schoolteacher. As soon as he comes home from school he would confine himself to his desk. He tries to be hard working but often fails miserably. Sometimes I tiptoe over for a peep and find him taking a snooze. Occasionally his mouth is drooling onto some book he has begun to read. He is an enormous gormandiser. After eating a great deal, he opens a book. When he has read a few pages, he becomes sleepy. He drools onto the book. This is the routine religiously observed each evening. There are times when even I, a mere cat, can put two thoughts together. Teachers have it easy. If you are born a human, it’s best to become a teacher: for if it’s possible to sleep this much and still to be a teacher, why, even a cat could teach. However, according to the master, there’s nothing harder than a teacher’s life and every time his friends come round to see him, he grumbles on and on.

This master of mine lacks the talent to be more than average at anything at all; but none the less he can’t refrain from trying his hands at everything and anything. He’s always writing on his blog; he sends off new-style poetry to Morning Star; he has a shot at prose peppered with gross mistakes; he takes blurry images on his old film camera and develops them in the bathroom; and sometimes he devotes himself to making hideous noises with a guitar. But I am sorry to say that none of these activities has led to anything whatsoever. Yet, he gets terribly keen once he has embarked upon a project.

1. Soseki Natsume, I Am a Cat, trans. Aiko Ito (Tuttle Publishing, 1905).

[iamacatsketches]

Introduction

This is I Am a Cat, a modern day adaptation of a Natsume Soseki (夏目漱石) novel of the same name (吾輩は猫である) [1] originally published in Hototogisu (ホトトギス) between 1905 and 1906.

I Am a Cat was originally published as a serial over two years. Each of the episodes are to an extent, self-contained and act as a short story. That is the same objective with this serial. Each episode is a self-contained episode, here, with even less focus on any underlining plot whatsoever.

While it is not necessary to have read the original novel to understand this work, I highly recommend it as it is still a great work of Japanese literature. Some episodes will be a direct adaptation of the original episodes, from which you will still understand the general themes from the original, while some will be their own little things.

Natsume Soseki wrote the novel as a satire to comment on various aspects of the modernisation of Japan at the time, and here I shall attempt to do the same. I have taken the liberty of changing a lot of traits of the original characters some more than the other. Each episode is a snippet of the life of a modern day Sneaze and his group of eccentric friends Waverhouse, a fellow teacher (in the original, a aesthetician); Coldmoon a former student of Sneaze, Beauchamp, an author through the lenses of an overeducated house cat living in the teacher’s house.

To differ from Natsume sensei and to make the episodes stand alone, I have decided to disregard any chronology. Since telling a story, in this iteration, is only a small part of the whole narrative. What I would like to focus more on is more so a cat’s eye view on modern day life and modern day issues. Thus the plot line of each episode shall be moulded as I see fit to the current issue at hand.

Some episodes will be a direct adaptation of the original, based mainly on the Japanese version and the translations by Aiko Ito and Graeme Wilson [2] (I might take different liberties in translation, I might just use the original translation as I see fit), some will focus on current issues some will just be about various aspect of life and some will be a cat’s take on philosophy and any topic I find interesting at the time of writing.

Throughout the final chapter of the novel, it is clear that Natsume sensei did not want to continue the story and expressed his conclusions to the premises of the book, towards the rapidly westernising world of Meiji japan and towards the overarching plot line of the novel. I however find that the premise is still a valuable tool, in the modern day, to express and tackle modern problems and ideas, therefore I feel obligated to continue his works in such regards, doing my best to honour Natsume sensei’s work. I hope you enjoy these short stories as they come.

1 夏目漱石, 吾輩は猫である (ホトトギス, 1905)

2 Soseki Natsume, I Am a Cat, trans. Aiko Ito (Tuttle Publishing, 1905).