I am so sleepy. I've been thinking about writing all day, looking forward to getting my stuff done so I could sit quietly for a few hours and produce something. It doesn't really matter what. Instead, I managed to waste an hour of my designated writing time staring at the Internet. Once I finally talked myself into closing my browser and opening a new Word-pad document, I sat and stared at the cursor. Then I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes, trying to decide whether a movie is a more realistic idea at this point. Bert didn't have very much advice, only blinking at me sleepily when I cooed his name. He has been with me for nearly nine years. Seeing his transformation from the weak emaciated thing he was into the spoiled fluff-ball who eats fifty dollars worth of high-class cat food a month that he is now, my heart flutters happily with the knowledge that I have made good on the promise I made him long ago, when he was nearly dead from starvation. He's made two seventeen hour drives with me, and the ten hour drive which finally led us home. He's sat patiently and motionless countless times as my tears left his fur wet. He had crossed eyes when he was a kitten, and they're so big and blue that sometimes, they look fake. He's come running in concern at the sounds of yelling and crying, and he has cried himself, in frustration, pacing up and down the hallway when his brother won't play with him. He's aided in the destruction of three cat trees, and he's just recently come to love his new one, the tallest and most elaborate he's ever had. He's been the center of attention at parties, and has made even those who claim to not like cats fall madly in love with him. He's left scars on a few, (back in his early "Satan Kitten" days) including one in my mom's tattoo. He has whined in desperation and fear. He's even screamed in pain a few times. He's had an X-Ray, and needs to be shaved yearly because he grows dreadlocks no matter what we do. He figured out how to open doors a long time ago, and likes to lick anything plastic that he can find, including, but not limited to: toilet paper packaging, box fans, and potato bags. He greets Robert excitedly when he gets home from work, and helps him play video games by sitting in his lap and purring contentedly. He becomes instantly afraid when the power goes out, and usually foams at the mouth and shakes during thunder storms. He likes to burrow under the covers with us. He gives head-butts and love bites. On rare occasions, he gives little kitty massages, and he loves to groom his brother.
Within all the instability that has been my life, there has always been one thing I could steadily trust. When I was a little girl, it was very hard for me to see any difference between a certain dog's experience and my own. That may sound very weird to a lot of people, but I say those people simply didn't know the wonder that was Ziggy Stardust. She paved the way for my very deep-seeded love and respect for animals. She showed me empathy when she saved a kitten from a pit-bull, bravery and dedication when she stepped out in front of a car that may otherwise have run over my brother, and a completely unconditional sort of love (a kind we as human beings are incapable of) when I looked into those big, brown eyes. She died of old age when I was eleven years old, but I still think of her often. She's even saved my life in my dreams a few times.
Animals have been one of the biggest sources of happiness and comfort in my life. I've never found trust so easily as with an animal. I watch Bert cozy on his blankie and hope that somewhere within his kitty brain, he knows that his mommy loves him. Just as with Ziggy, and all those after her, he has his own space in my heart that won't ever be filled by anything else. I only hope to see him nine more years from now, still cozy and happy and fluffy in whatever special spot he may have at the time, so far away from the torture that was his beginning.
It takes grit I can only pretend to have
I feel like an egg.
I wobble unsteadily into the room.
Do people look at me and try to imagine what my runny yolk must taste like?
Do they habitually skip breakfast?
I am bigger than everyone else.
My waist is wider than my shoulders.
Every glance is an insult.
Every smile is a promise of emotional warfare.
I speak in a whisper that clangs like silverware on china.
My shell caves in when I need to enunciate more than a few words.
I think we all need to be more careful.
I am raw, and my center is full of cholesterol.
She
can subtract four inches.
She
gains four points
toward a higher measure of validation,
a higher probability of approval
punctuated by the stretch and curve
of all those other lips.
She
traces the squares of the linoleum.
She
wears checkered oven mitts
to silence the threats her heart beats
into her ears.
She
knows everything is perfect with fours
and in fours
mathematically
and
aesthetically.
They are control.
They are a perfect arrangement.
She
treats them as she attempts
to treat her personality;
arranges them
with the timid tapping of her finger.
She
uses her Crayolas
to color the squares within the squares
of graph paper.
Even on all sides
and all sides the same.
They are perfection.
Pristine.
Never a dull thing,
a stupid thing,
a nervous or gullible thing,
but perfect
and straight
and strong
just as
She
is none of those things.
I am an animal
who sometimes decides to wish
that other animal over there
will allow me into their territory.
I am an entire universe
who sometimes decides to allow
millions of my own tiny planets
to orbit someone else's sun.
Sometimes
I am The Big Bang.
Sometimes
I am just your lunch.
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