Complex Numbers

Memories

I may have overdone the cultural appropriation of Cinco de Mayo yesterday. My stash of tequila is almost gone. This would be a crisis if I didn't have plenty of other beverages; I'm about done with tequila for at least a few days.

PROMPT May 6th

Write about an object you own that has negligible monetary value, but is priceless to you.

I'm usually wary of revealing stuff that people could use against me if I inadvertently piss them off, so the temptation is there to make up something about a RealDoll. Those things are expensive, or so I've heard, but the used RealDoll market is, understandably, nonexistent. So it would fit the bill quite nicely.

If you've never heard of a RealDoll, congratulations. I strongly suggest you don't Google it.

On a philosophical note, if something has negligible monetary value, can one truly say that one "owns" it? Can a person truly own anything, for that matter? And what is the sound of one hand clapping?

While we're at it, how are "worthless" and "priceless" antonyms?

I have a lousy memory, and I rely on objects to remind me of the past. There's a lot of past, so there's a lot of objects. Most of them are objectively worthless, but, at the same time, I probably wouldn't be overly emotional if they vanished.

For a while, I had a cat named Ghost. I met him as a kitten; he wasn't even a week old, and no one knew where his mother was. His eyes were closed, and he was utterly helpless, a little gray blob. At that age, without maternal care, kittens have a tendency to fail to survive. When he did survive, against the odds, that's when I named him. He grew into a tiger-striped gray tabby with a little white spot on the very tip of his tail.

He was my cat before I got married, and he was still with me after my wife dumped me, more constant than any human. He'd follow me on my walking adventures, taillight held high, and at night he'd stand sentinel at the foot of the bed.

A couple of months after I had a heart attack, Ghost also had a heart attack, at the ripe old age of 16. He was still alive when I rushed him to the vet; afterward, he wasn't.

His ashes, worthless and priceless, stand on a shelf, accompanied by those of my other good kitties, their memory guarded by a statue of Bastet.

I lack the genes that prompt some people to need to have someone to take care of, or to need to have someone to take care of them. But for a while there, Ghost and I took care of each other, and it's nice to have a memory of that.