I asked AI to write a letter from Henry James upon discovering a cat had been named after him...

My dear Madam,

I find myself, in this most improbable hour, compelled to address a circumstance so extraordinary that it borders upon the fantastical—yet one which, I am assured, has occurred in the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty-five. It has come to my attention, through channels I dare not attempt to comprehend (something involving "the internet" and "viral posts"), that a lady of the present century has bestowed upon her domestic feline the name of Henry James.

Henry James. My name. Upon a cat.

At first I confess I experienced a sensation not unlike that of a character in one of my own later novels—consciousness slowly expanding, layer upon layer, to accommodate a revelation at once flattering and faintly horrifying. The creature, I am told, is a tuxedo who spends his days reclining upon comfortable chairs and answering—when he deigns to answer at all—to "Henry."

I have spent a lifetime laboring to construct sentences of such exquisite discrimination that they might register the finest shades of human motive and perception. I have weighed every clause, every qualifier, every hesitating "perhaps" and "rather," in order that the civilized intelligence might be honored in its full complexity. And now, in the twenty-first century, the name attached to this enterprise is chiefly employed to summon a small mammal to his dinner.

There is, I suppose, a certain poetic justice in it. All my fastidious indirection, my refusal to declare anything outright, my endless circling of the subject—qualities which certain critics have found trying—are now perfectly embodied in a creature who refuses to come when called, who regards human beings with polite but absolute detachment, and whose inner life remains, to the end, inscrutable.

Yet I cannot repress a small, distinctly American thrill of gratification. To think that, long after my removal from this terrestrial scene, my name should still possess sufficient resonance to be chosen—not for a child, not for a racehorse, not even for a particularly solemn spaniel—but for a cat. There is something touching in the democracy of it. The cat, after all, is the most Jamesian of creatures: aloof, observant, exquisitely sensitive to nuance, and capable of conveying volumes of disapproval with the slightest twitch of a whisker.

I only hope, Madam, that when you address him as "Henry," you do so with the proper reverence for the syllables. Pronounce the "Henry" with a certain fullness, and let the "James" linger just a moment, as though reluctant to conclude the thought. He may appear not to listen, but one never knows. Cats, like readers, are subtle.

With the most distinguished consideration (and a faint, involuntary purr of vanity),

I remain, Your obedient servant,

Henry James

 

I have said before that hearing certain songs unexpectedly on the radio can have me travelling back in time mentally, but lately I feel it's more that that 17 year old girl who first heard the song still resides inside me.  Even worse, I wonder if it's not that that younger me still is a huge part of me, but that she never grew up.

I love this from the introduction to the novel Mary by Nat Cassidy:

Robyn was a Stephen King junkie, so she was the perfect person to ask for a way to defeat Carrie so that I wouldn’t have to be afraid of her anymore. Except that’s not what my mom did, not quite. She sat me down and told me the story of Carrie, and she did so in such a way that made my heart break for this poor girl who’d been dealt such an unfair hand. She made sure I understood that Carrie wasn’t so much the monster as she was surrounded by them. I’d never heard a horror story framed that way. I’d never felt sympathy—love, even—for something I thought I was supposed to fear.

Incidentally, for probably a year or so after that talk, whenever I was alone and afraid (which, as a latchkey kid who was already obsessed with horror, was often), I would talk to Carrie White. She became something of a matron saint for me. I have very clear memories of being home all by myself and literally whispering things, like, “I’m sorry they were so mean to you, Carrie; I’ll be your friend. I won’t treat you like they did. Please just keep me safe.” And hey, I survived childhood. So I can’t rule out that it didn’t work.

A few years later, I started writing my own stories, and I had an early idea for a novel that, in part, would be something of an homage. It came from a simple question: What would happen if Carrie didn’t have any special powers? Where would she be as a grown-up? Would she still have a story? I knew right away I’d even give this novel a title that acknowledged the connection. I’d call it Mary.

I arrived to Stranger Things very late, but I'm already on season 4 and like it very much. It's not the plot that keeps me bingeing, but the characters and that the 1980s is so key to this show. I love that the mall is an essential part of season 3 and that the "friends don't lie" dynamic is so heart-warming and important.

The gross factor (the squishing especially) is pretty off-putting, but I'm able to put that aside. I won't go into too much detail about that, if you watch Stranger Things you know what I mean about the Mind Flayer et al.

Though Dustin and El are my absolute favorite characters (Steve has really grown on me, though, and I'm starting to like Robin though she still feels "new" to me) I can't help but think how much Nancy reminds me of someone I used to know decades ago.

The person I'm thinking of only vaguely physically resembles Nancy, if at all, but their temperament. especially their kindness and quiet strength, totally echo Nancy's.

I should write more about this when I have my thoughts better arranged. I have a headache and my mind is on a million and one different things, or at least it feels that way. Plus, for no one reason I can pin point I just feel incredibly sad and remorseful.

 

I hate how men can be sometimes (with toxic masculinity) but I love how they really could be, in an alternate reality.

Every man I have ever found appealing is just a character on a TV show and they always seem to care about everyone, even if it's only in the smallest of ways. They can be very manly and tough without being toxic.

In the darkness of my living room, the glow of the tv and the easy way I fall into made up worlds and the facade of a glass of wine or two, I like to pretend I can believe anything.

The lead actor, Aaron Stanford, on the tv show 12 Monkeys, Kirk Acevedo on Fringe (and also on 12 Monkeys) Jason Bateman, but only as the animated Nick Wilde in the movie Zootopia movies. I don't want to be with men intimately, but I like them so much in non-threatening, comfortably distant ways.

Ever since I started realizing what my feelings about girls in high school and later on women, in adult life, meant I have struggled with the fact that I’m attracted to women, even if it’s mostly emotional and romantically.

I pretty much am sure I could live to be 1 million years old and I still wouldn’t fully accept I’m gay.

I want to like men the way I’m supposed to like men, I really, really do.

I'm reading a book right now called The Queer Thing About Sin: Why The West Came to Hate Queer Love and I get the intro so very much:

When I was a teenager, I believed I was going to hell. For centuries, it was almost universally acknowledged that all gay men would. It wasn’t until years later that I asked myself where that idea came from, and why was it that, thousands of years ago when the Bible was written, people decided that queer love was a sin? 

It hadn’t always been a sin to be queer. In many cities across the ancient world, same-sex love was celebrated. So how did homophobia take root? Why did so many societies start executing men and women for the same love once praised by their philosophers and rulers? 

I have personal reasons for wanting to know the answer. My father died when I was two years old and for many years being Christian made me feel whole. Christianity gave me a compass with which to navigate the world and allowed me to commune with the people I’d lost. But that all changed when I fell in love with another boy at school. 

The love that upended my world was clandestine and unrequited. Little girls and boys grow up knowing they will get married; they sketch out the geography of their future relationships long before they even feel physical attraction. For queer people, desire arrives unannounced – it comes as a lightning bolt through a clear-blue sky. I knew I couldn’t tell anyone. I had to keep it secret from him, from the world, and at times even from myself. It was what Christianity taught me to do.