kittenish
ceraphine is acting atypically, she never mious, only complaisantly when she is hungry. but she mious more now, and follows me, and then when i give her a saucer of milk and a floral cake plate of cat food, she disregards it, mious still, mutates herself into my shadow. d says she might have a peculiar recent desperation for affection. it could be that.
if she's sleeping on my blankets, in a plush dream, i pick her up and carry her off to wherever i am going to sit and read, consume, discourse. carrying her earlier i felt sorry that i wasn't a kitten, that there was nobody who felt the need to pick me up and carry me away, just so i could be in their company, not to do anything just to sit there and purr. to be happy, (nothing). i was wistful that my presence wasn't comforting as cat fur.
but then i remember the other night, as i seldom remember nights vaporous as they are in neuroleptic abstraction; we had a gathering, home made spirits, (chatting nodding but off away somewhere comparing jack daniels and lemonade to some type of liquid ghost, an obvious semantic resolution. why are the strongest alcohols called spirits anyway?), peach schnapps and ping pong. i made fairy bread and put it out for all the boys. jason and his friends came, i talked for a while and laughed but then i became tired, and went into my room for a cigarette and a sleeping pill (or three), and i melted like cheese onto a slim beautiful world, the ceiling the walls the bed beneath me all linear like an unfolded paper cube just flatness and my dreams. and i lay there just indulging in the weightless lead of my legs weakening over the side of the bed in mary janes, sleeping inside the music and whispering all the best parts of the lyrics. "so wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty".
i liked it in there, by my candlelit vanity, which looks more like a shrine, virgin mary and bottles of pills and a photograph of anna, vain heliotrope frondescence, reflections. i liked it even more knowing jason was just outside mellow and talking to everybody i lived with.
and when i stayed in there too long, he'd come in and i'd slump onto his body flattening out like a fluid plasticine, and he'd say please come outside and sit on my lap, i just want you to be there with me. and i would say oh no i like it in here but he'd say please, so i would somehow float out there trailing behind him like a ribbon in his hand. and talk about things like his pet chameleon when he lived in south africa, and then i'd go all sleepy again and go back to my room, and he'd come in and ask me the same thing again.
that night was pretty, i liked it best before we left, four of us cross legged on my bedroom floor, dim and the rolling stones and nikka costa and wicked beat sound system, and making magnetic poetry and drifting in and out of our selves and talking about loves and being self deprecating and laughing. and then i stayed at jason's house. we woke in the morning with bad dreams, and he hates me those mornings, the mornings after my dream self tortures him all night by kissing other people, and:
a weird thing happened i won't much go into. i lost myself that morning, i couldn't feel a thing, i sat there blank and waiting for something to come back, sadness, appetite, or just to be affected by jason's touch, but nothing happened. eventually, very, i felt a desire to cry from so faraway i could never have actually done so, but it was enough. and later i figured out it must have been what i read about in the little slip that comes in the box of sleeping pills. if you get less than eight hours sleep, you experience temporary amnesia for the morning. and i'd taken three pills, and gotten only about five hours sleep. or four. but i think being a tabula rasa for a little while permanently erased a few things from my psyche. pleasing.
today i'm asking everybody i see whether they'd choose gills or wings. i think it tells me everything about a person.
if she's sleeping on my blankets, in a plush dream, i pick her up and carry her off to wherever i am going to sit and read, consume, discourse. carrying her earlier i felt sorry that i wasn't a kitten, that there was nobody who felt the need to pick me up and carry me away, just so i could be in their company, not to do anything just to sit there and purr. to be happy, (nothing). i was wistful that my presence wasn't comforting as cat fur.
but then i remember the other night, as i seldom remember nights vaporous as they are in neuroleptic abstraction; we had a gathering, home made spirits, (chatting nodding but off away somewhere comparing jack daniels and lemonade to some type of liquid ghost, an obvious semantic resolution. why are the strongest alcohols called spirits anyway?), peach schnapps and ping pong. i made fairy bread and put it out for all the boys. jason and his friends came, i talked for a while and laughed but then i became tired, and went into my room for a cigarette and a sleeping pill (or three), and i melted like cheese onto a slim beautiful world, the ceiling the walls the bed beneath me all linear like an unfolded paper cube just flatness and my dreams. and i lay there just indulging in the weightless lead of my legs weakening over the side of the bed in mary janes, sleeping inside the music and whispering all the best parts of the lyrics. "so wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty".
i liked it in there, by my candlelit vanity, which looks more like a shrine, virgin mary and bottles of pills and a photograph of anna, vain heliotrope frondescence, reflections. i liked it even more knowing jason was just outside mellow and talking to everybody i lived with.
and when i stayed in there too long, he'd come in and i'd slump onto his body flattening out like a fluid plasticine, and he'd say please come outside and sit on my lap, i just want you to be there with me. and i would say oh no i like it in here but he'd say please, so i would somehow float out there trailing behind him like a ribbon in his hand. and talk about things like his pet chameleon when he lived in south africa, and then i'd go all sleepy again and go back to my room, and he'd come in and ask me the same thing again.
that night was pretty, i liked it best before we left, four of us cross legged on my bedroom floor, dim and the rolling stones and nikka costa and wicked beat sound system, and making magnetic poetry and drifting in and out of our selves and talking about loves and being self deprecating and laughing. and then i stayed at jason's house. we woke in the morning with bad dreams, and he hates me those mornings, the mornings after my dream self tortures him all night by kissing other people, and:
a weird thing happened i won't much go into. i lost myself that morning, i couldn't feel a thing, i sat there blank and waiting for something to come back, sadness, appetite, or just to be affected by jason's touch, but nothing happened. eventually, very, i felt a desire to cry from so faraway i could never have actually done so, but it was enough. and later i figured out it must have been what i read about in the little slip that comes in the box of sleeping pills. if you get less than eight hours sleep, you experience temporary amnesia for the morning. and i'd taken three pills, and gotten only about five hours sleep. or four. but i think being a tabula rasa for a little while permanently erased a few things from my psyche. pleasing.
today i'm asking everybody i see whether they'd choose gills or wings. i think it tells me everything about a person.