A Village Fool

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Meet Lolita. About six years ago she showed up in the yard. She was so little she fit inside my husband's shoe. I remember that because when Allen saw her he said, "We don't need another cat." I don't remember how many cats we had at that time, but it was a lot. He set the kitten on the ground, patted her behind, and sent her on her way. The next morning we found her inside his shoe, fast asleep. That was it, of course. She belonged to the place after that. I named her Lolita because she walked about sexily, as though on high heels.

So that's Lolita, lying on her back next to the water basin. That's what I saw when I glanced out the back door this afternoon, Lolita lying as though dead next to the water, as though she'd bent to take a sip and then simply gave up on any other plans right there. It's been that kind of day.

Whoo-ee, it's been hot. Lolita should take care of any doubts you have about that. Of course I had to snap the photo through the window: to open the door may have disturbed the pose. It's a bad snapshot, but you get the idea.

So it's been one of those days. Hot and lazy. We don't have central air at our house. We have a little unit sticking out of the bedroom window. The rest of the house is hot, hot, hot. I've been moving listlessly around, reading a bit, journaling a bit, scrapbooking a bit. Thinking more about being a writer than being one.

This is one of things I thought about.

There are all kinds of writers. I'm the kind of writer that almost always writes from the perspective of "not knowing."

I thought about this today when I ran across a delightful little story called "The Bull's Eye."

A long time ago, a nobleman who was a student of military matters, passed through a tiny village where he saw a hundred circles drawn on the side of a barn--and in the center of each circle was a bullet hole. The nobleman was amazed and asked who the expert shot was. "Oh," someone said, "that's Nar, our town fool!" The nobleman was amazed and said he should like to shake Nar's hand, even though he was a fool, because such expert shooting was rare indeed. "Oh no, no, no, you don't understand," said the villager, "Nar doesn't draw the circle first and then shoot. He shoots first, and then he draws the circle."

There are times, of course, when a story comes to me full grown. I draw a circle on the side of the barn, and take out the great big rifle, and POW. I mean, really, POW! Nail it. Right through the heart of it. I stand strong the whole time in the knowing, in the soundness of my ability. But most of the time I just don't have a clue. I take out my little 22 and shoot the barn first with a little idea, then I try to draw circles around it. It feels a little like cheating, Anyway, I don't feel smart while I'm doing it. Also not particularly smart after I've finished. I mean, for heaven's sake, shouldn't I be able to aim and fire by now, and hit the big idea right through the middle?

Sometimes I can't even draw the circles around the bullet hole. My hand shakes and everything goes awry. But if the story is sound, I will end up with what LOOKS like a perfect bull's eye. Invariably, someone will say to me, "Wow, how did you do that?" I will smile enigmatically. I won't tell them I shot the barn first and then drew the circle around it. I don't want them to know I'm really just the village fool. I'll let them think I went POW!!!! The big gun, yeah. Like one of those really great authors. POW. Yeah.

Whew, is it ever hot in here.