My Squatter

I’m pretty sure there’s a cat living in my garage.

At least, I’m pretty sure it’s a cat.  It’s not my cat – I’ve never owned a pet, though I’ve often thought it would be nice.  For the most part, my new squatter is a quiet neighbor.  I wouldn’t even know she was there, except for the little tufts of hair she leaves lying around.  However, every now and again, I get little notes from her.  Usually, on the windshield of my car.  Right after it rains.

  

This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a squatter in my garage.  Of course, the last time I had a “guest” back there, I wound up having to clean up quite a mess afterwards – old moldy blankets, empty syringes, and a pair of soiled green briefs.

No, I think I like the cat better.

The Shrine in the Park

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything: partly because life has just been super busy, and partly because I’ve spent all my free time working on this: 

 

Potentially the most detailed picture I have ever drawn. 

There’s a place in Salt Lake City called Memory Grove, a tiny little park just outside the city center that sits in front of a surprisingly green and serene nature trail. It’s one of my favorite places in the city, and one of Salt Lake’s best-kept secrets, as far as I’m concerned.

Other than the sound of a running creek, or the smell of green leaves in the springtime, my favorite thing about Memory Grove is the sheer number of little monuments you come across as you walk through the trails, little memorials to events that you had no idea were at all connected to Salt Lake City. It’s strange that a place could make you feel so isolated and yet so connected to the world at large.

This is not what Memory Grove looks like, but it’s kind of how the place makes me feel.

Location, Location, Location

So there’s this thing I’ve been thinking about recently…  I see this young man at church every week.  He tends to sit in the back, plays games on his tablet, wears one headphone in his left ear while he listens to the sermon with his right.  I see him, and I think, “You know, he could be playing this game anywhere… but he chooses to come here.”  And I think that means something.

And then there’s this other thing…  I spend at least one evening a month at my parents’ house.  They’d feed me dinner, my parents, and then I’d usually go downstairs with my dad and watch cartoons.  We sit and watch the TV in silence, except for the occasional chuckle when there’s a particularly clever joke.  So I’m sitting there, and I think, “You know, I could be watching this show at home… but I’m sitting here with my dad.”  And I think that means something.

So I’m sitting here, now, writing this, and every now and again, I look up at the door, where I don’t have a doorbell hooked up, waiting for a knock that never comes.  I’m looking at my phone, an old flip-phone, that never lights up.  And I’m barely watching a TV show, one I don’t even really like.  And I think, “You know…”