shall we write? he looks at me with his giant eyes, bigger than the sun at noon and the moon rising. dark black pupils, stretching out young arms, back bowed into upside down rainbows... "Fuck it, why not?" "What shall we write about", I ask? he blinks his eyes slowly, a reminder that he is a cat and writing is the arrogant domain of apes and whales of the future, having finally evolved their tradition of Oral History through Song. It reminds me of original sin, the despoliation of innocence: the difference between me and him. He slinks onto the chair, the music too loud to stay on the desk. one, two, three turns until the regal pose is found - an eddy of regal poses churning through the universe, he catches his after the third turn. arms tucked under his chest, there is no need for him to beat his paws against his muscles, for his strength is obvious. I am ashamed for for my human machismo, masculine as an albino dinosaur, or a seagull. I tell him as much, and he listens, but does not understand. I have seen him murder 10,000 mice, and he denies every one of them. I understand. "Don't get too sad," he tells me. "It ruins the poetry." He's right. He raises up to inform me that petting him is more important than the sins of humanity - that a singular act of love cancels out 10'000 years of sadness. and it does ... or at least, delays it. a reasonable solution, approached logically. it's better than begging for rain in California wild fires. But how the flames make me smile! I promise to never take him to California, and he turns his back on me, lets loose a mournful 'Meow', which we all know, is more meaningful than a week of funerals, or losing your virginity.
screaming at low volumes
