Bruce Lee had a mesmeric effect on his followers. For them, he was the embodiment of a true martial artist. He was from the East. He was fast, he was strong, flexible. He had great reaction times, he voiced all sorts of pseudo-intellectual sayings, which were not necessarily aphorisms, but they had enough truth in them to get people repeating them up until this very day (“be water” etc.). This gave him gravitas. And still does.
He was also a crafty man. Nobody knows how “good” he was as a fighter. All we have is myth, hearsay, rumours. We know he was a good stuntman. A writer and deep thinker when it came to hand-to-hand combat. An inventor, almost, of a whole new fighting style, Jeet Kune Do. Some call him the godfather of mixed martial arts. An undefeated street fighter par excellence. Others call him a charlatan. A trickster. Who knows? Despite the video footage, despite the movies… despite the eye-witness reports, there is not enough to go on, seemingly.
I hint at some suspicions about Bruce Lee’s prowess in The Dojang.
Basil, the cat from across our house, is a similarly divisive and alluring figure.
When we first moved into to the house (prior to embarking on a major refurbishment to turn it into a palatial mansion) Basil would saunter through our back garden, pretending that we were nothing to him. Useless humans. Expendable. Then, slowly, he drew my wife into his nefarious plan to overtake our humble abode and become the de facto King of the Castle or Dirty Rascal, as they say in the playground of primary schools up and down England’s green and pleasant land (don’t ask). [Don’t worry, nobody will — Ed]
My wife thought she was in control, encouraging Basil with treats. He would play shy at first, taking only very tentative steps towards her. But once he saw that she had been hypnotised by his apparent charms, he dropped his act. He began waiting every morning at the crack of dawn at the back door of the old conservatory until someone would wake up, see him, and let him in. And give him a treat. Or 10.
He would start to sleep on the boys’ bunk bed. He would sleep on my chair where I “work”. He would go up into the loft and sleep on a pile of clothes. He would, in short, do whatever the heck he wanted to do.
This has continued until this day, save for an eight-month break created by “the build” as our builder called it. As an aside, I may start referring to my latest masterpieces as “the write”. (Eh? Get a grammar book for infants — Ed)
Now, my mother-in-law has been ensnared as well. She is under the impression that Basil listens to her every instruction. But he is simply biding his time, employing the best techniques from The Art of War. “All warfare is based on deception”. Soon he will no doubt have his own bed in my mother-in-law’s living area. Perhaps in her bedroom. He will sit on the window sill during the day, sending out cat morse code signals to stray cats in the area. The call will be a simple one. “Enter this house fellow cats. Here you will find endless treats and non-stop pampering.”
The only topic of conversation at home now revolves around Basil. “Has Basil been?” “Where’s Basil?” “Has Basil gone?” “Look at Basil?” “How many treats has Basil had today?”
Even when he murders birds and mice in cold blood, he is very quickly forgiven. When he scratches the furniture or jumps onto the dining table, his transgression blows away like a white feather into the wind. He can do no wrong.
As Basil no doubt repeats to himself everyday: “I came, I saw and I conquered.”
No wonder there is a cat food brand called Caesar (is there — Ed?).
Progress report:
I am soon to make my first round of corrections to my novel The Fragment from The Shroud. Then it will be time for a second edit.
The Anchorite, my latest novella, is at 4,250 words, so roughly a quarter of the way through.
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.
Love Basil! What a charming character.