Long Haired Cat

THE CAT WAS sitting on the cold platform licking its long black and white hair. The man sat down on the bench. It was a strange bench designed in a way that things imposed now rarely are; to last the length of the age. It was divided into three wide seats by decorative iron arm rests which were colder than the ground – the black and white long hair cat began its ritual for sitting on his lap. First it travelled in front of him whilst looking into the middle distance, its head raised proud -- he was sitting, as usual, in the middle of the three seats, this was right and proper. After passing in front of him it took great care in jumping onto the seat furthest from where it started. He opened a button on his jacket with great ceremony and the cat stepped into his lap. It extended its claws and mussed and fluffed his shirt where the material rested upon his stomach, preparing. The man widely drew his jacket around the cat gently, and it burrowed its head in under his armpit. The wind blew across his chest and he shivered, the cat’s hair was cold, and under his chilled hands it felt brittle, dry and coarse. The pads of its paws felt like soft blebs of ice and the ground glittered like sandpaper.

He remembered patterns from his childhood, a brown flower-patterned towel, thin rainbow striped wallpaper – remembered the brightness and specialness of individual objects in the accumulated and important poverty of everything else around, like polished stones sitting in dust. The cat made him think of people who throw things away; old things because they are messy; or have a room within which messiness is allowed to take place. These people terrify him – there is something in themselves that asks “W h y do we have t h e s e things?” Now he answers, "we have them because they anchor us to the ground, to places. They mark our territory, they prohibit us from leaving at short notice, they mean that someone cannot easily take our place; they mean that small provocations must be worked through, they are a commitment to specific time and specific space – they are at the very least a promise to return and organise, perhaps."

The man had lived his life carelessly, and was grateful for all the things he had lost. He gave away or missed, he never disposed of. The cat was asleep, but a train was approaching. He shifted his weight with his hips and crossed his legs, the cat stirred. He raised himself in the seat and the cat slid to his knees and stepped onto the ground.

Jack said there's too much fiction on here and not enough..well....non-fiction

About a minute ago I was lying on my bed thinking about what to write down, with my face turned away from my cat, who had his front feet on my hip. I knew it was my cat there but suddenly he started to touch my right hand in a way that felt so much like a giant bumblebee that for a moment I was convinced and frightened like a nightmare.

Later Reference the Bones of a Cat.

Simón was sharply interrupted, he had long since been an admirer of the sea and he often sat in a similar spot to the one he was in now to confirm that. As a cat he didn’t feel obliged to do anything, he just marvelled at the ripples and eulogized that tide until he was sure the sea would’ve seen him, whatever the weather. Now, for example, was tempestuous, to say the least: the rain was driving and the wind riproared through his whiskers. Dusk might’ve been two shades away but it was hard to tell, as the darkness hadn’t left all day. After staring at the sea for so much Simón really had become familiar with it, he could never remember each lilt or twist and expect it to be there next time, (that was part of his love of the thing) but he would recognize an oddness.
And that’s how he was interrupted and exactly what he had done. Simón had spotted a glint, a small glint just glowing through the sea and the sea had never had one of those before. He watched a little longer, his eyes bleating in the rain. ‘What could possibly make a glint just glowing through the sea?’: a bonfire for the barnacles, the bright lights of a pirates plight or a vigil, perhaps. The wind convinced Simón not to investigate just now even though he could think of little else.
“Sleep and dream”, it moaned, “sleep and dream.”
The next day the storm hadn’t gone home and Simón hurried his breakfast to see if he could still find the glint. With a squint passed the rock that looked only a little like Ecuador he spied it, still gleaming ‘gainst the unusually darkened sky. The wind pushed him back and the sea rioted. No conditions for investigating. Simón had to quell his interest. For the next two days he observed the glint and the waters ran amok.
[Welling turned to necessity and a splash of desperation.] Simón found the third day had gotten the better of him so he edged down towards the shore, eyes focussed on the glint. The sea was still raging. He stood feet facing the tides. He had to know what was making that glint. What was needed was a closer look. Walking right to the border of the water he peered towards it - a gust blustered his coat – but he still couldn’t find the answer. Rolling up his trousers he waded a little way in to the sea, it’s cold love was just as unwelcoming. Closer. The water went passed his knees and skirted his middle yet telling what the glint was was still impossible. Chest. Neck. No answer. The waves slashed his face and fired his temper; he didn’t know how to turn back anymore, not until he had the answer. He lifted his feet from the kelp of the beds and swam a little towards the glint. Closer. Further. And far less safe, a step too far for spangle’s sake. The currents overthrew him, outnumbered but the glint was just a dozen strokes away he mayswell take the risk. Still no clearer image, he was nearly at its source. Just below the water it should’ve closed a hundred hearts. It wasn’t the gold or glory, he just had to know its cause.
Now peering for that answer the murk beneath his eager paddling paws, he paused. The glint grew brighter, larger, consuming the once murky sea beneath Simón. As he beheld what he’d been waiting for.
Now he knew what was making that glint.
It was the eye of a whale.
“Finally I know.” he gasped as he broke inside the belly of the answer.

The Court of King Jelly Roll

In Bacchus’ name, lift up your spoons, for the season approacheth, little things. Even now, the reupholsterers are reupholstering chairs, purple and green. The physicians are smiling, the ladies are moist. King Jelly Roll is better, thanks be to God. The dead are buried, the table is set. Put on your hats and saddle your horses, for King Jelly Roll’s court is reconvened. The frosty veil is lifted, so come, the embarrassed and regretful, take off your clothes and thrash about wildly, in the manner of a boar in the throes of death. For, in faith, the winter’s boar does die for the summer’s pork. The thin gander swears an oath, and the fool is in the mixture. Shoots are shooting, boots are new, but the ceremony will be a barefoot affair. Do not sit down by the roadside facing the hedgerow when all the world is dead, and everything in it. For, in faith, that is the time to put your hand in your trousers, and the rod and the staff shall comfort you. The road is well lit, and is not very long. In the circle, four English leagues west of the wood where tall wolves groan, four English leagues north of the marsh where grass snakes consider, four English leagues east of the plain where women wish, four English leagues south of the bay where cormorants swoop at the backs of fishermen, the festival will be met. Forthwith, then, to the circle; wrap your wife in ivy. The leopard that was in the tree now stands on one leg in the centre of the circle, and, in faith, the tree stands proud on the leopard’s back. The nephews beloved of King Jelly Roll stand at the trestles of the five innermost tables, and no rope can bind them. The attendant nymphs shine like berries. From the nub of the mound, even now the first of the guests can be seen approaching. First among them is Brutus, and not least among them, Gog and Magog. King Jelly Roll has risen from his mossy sickbed. So lift up your spoons, in Bacchus’ name, for the feast.

Allium cepa

It can be assumed safely that the onion has contributed greatly to human diets for many a long year; indeed, there is strong evidence that, in the Egypt of antiquity, it was a sacred root, on a par with cats in religious significance. Unlike the cat, however, it was probably eaten. It wasn’t until 1493, though, that the great Christopher Columbus introduced Allium cepa to the Americas, specifically Haiti. Since then, the onion has grown to be one of the continent’s more widely used vegetables. Although onion syrup is undoubtedly a useful remedy for coughs and colds, and reduces the risk of contracting various cancers, it is doubtful that Pig Gantry had this in mind when he decided on the course of action upon which he decided, that of bringing eighty sacks if there’s any of onions aboard this three-masted schooner, a sensitive and above all fragile lady of an ocean going vessel.

A Disco for the Daytime-Waltz

The Carnival Lights have returned, a generational cluster of Carnival Lights, once fuckin’ around the back-alleys of hiatus & autonomy and now with a ticket to soldier aboard this fine ThinkTank. And we are. Loitering amidst a dazzle and shooting from its hip and happenin’ moxy.
It’s good to have good company
and only a rollerblade removed from where we were, in a fashion.
A Hot new recce,
A Gumbo of Soul,
A direction without its destination
A rally, a cry, a glint in the eye.
And that’s the gospel-truth.