Belief does not bring peace of
mind. Depression
digs its fingers in
to man of cloth & child of sin
alike; & in the tumbled heart
where tangled tubes & vessels burn
we break apart & shatter in
the knowledge that we will not learn:
humanity is flawed; but lo! –
we linger on; we will not go.
Despair does not unravel hope.
The measure where the mind gives way
to madness in (the
echo found); the day
today, the curling ground below
the satin sway of sky; the pearling
blue & vaulted black beyond the reach
of human eye, which seeks (unseen)
for what we lack:
life weeps; but in the silver rain
we wash our hearts, and loving
will remain.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Owning Of Cats Is A Difficult Matter
It is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone foolish enough to be possessed of a housecat must be in want of a dead mouse. Or, possibly, a live mouse. Delivered to their bed. At three o'clock in the morning.
At least, this is the logic under which Bop was operating last night. Having already woken Quine and me up by brawling furiously across our feet with Nano at 1:30, he came back an hour and a half later, walked around on us a bit, and then left, no doubt looking pleased with himself. Trying to fall back asleep after this interruption, I heard Quine mumble, 'I think there's a mouse in the bed.'
Any enthusiasm I might have felt at this knowledge was instantly quelled by the fact that I was (a) tired and (b) completely unbothered by the prospect, in the strange, detatched way of someone unwilling to get up for anything less than World War III or the next George R. R. Martin novel.
'Mmph,' said I, rolling over. I heard Quine rise - heard his feet shift on the wood as, with bleary ceremony, he examined our bed.
It was at this point I felt something twitching under the doona near my leg. Ah.
'Mouse,' I mumbled. Quine dove and, after a struggle of epic proportions, wrestled the invader into submission. I heard banging and muffled swearing, the unmistakeable sound of Bop and his latest gift being thrown unceremoniously out of the kitchen.
Quine returned. We went to sleep.
Ten minutes later, Bop - and his mouse - were back. A sterner, grumpier eviction followed, of which I took no part but relief when, after another return to restless sleep, the incident was not repeated a third time.
Whence, then, has come Bop's recent fascination with mice? I say 'recent,' because - unlike just about any other cat in the known universe - Bop is a fairly useless hunter. To date, he has caught two rats (one only rumoured by an old lady he used to visit) and a dove. Possibly, there is a small number of mice to add to this list, but I am disinclined to count them, owing to the fact that, nine times out of ten, he loses them; and on the other occasions, he's never quite sure what to do. In fact, whenever Bop manages to bring down a kill, he sings to it - a weird, lilting cat-croon that is quite different to his usual vocabulary, and which I have heard him use in no other context. It is as if he is mourning a dear friend, unable to understand why his companion of so many joyful minutes has suddenly quit the game midplay.
Certainly, he does nothing so vulgar as try to eat them: he goes on playing, and then - when they don't wake up - he makes eulogies. Contrast to Nano, who, owing to Bop's habit of eating both their dinners, often subsists on a diet composed enitrely of mice. She hunts with the brutal efficiency of the true predator, and eats in quick, small bites lest we try to steal her food. Her only efforts at display are to run in very quickly, prey in mouth, and growl, thereby announcing her prowess - but then she darts back out again, through the window and into the night. Or afternoon. Or morning.
But Bop - bless his velvet paws - is a special case. And I think, after our recent trip to Sydney, that I finally understand why.
As a kitten, our old neighbours gave him a particular cat-toy their own pet had rejected: a plush mouse, about the size of a golf ball, which squeaked realistically whenever it was moved. It didn't run on batteries, nor was it a chew-toy: it was more the kind of mechanism one finds in those little insect boxes in National Geographic, where the act of tilting said box causes it to chirrup. In any case, Bop fell madly in love - but when we moved to Melbourne, the mouse got left behind.
Recently, my parents found it again. We took brought it home after Christmas. Bop was wary at first, but seemingly, his memory of it has returned, because in almost a week and a half, he hasn't left the damn thing alone. He sleeps with it, either cuddled between his paws, safe under his belly or tucked beneath his chin. He disembowls it, bites it, chews it, rolls on it, throws it around and chases it, and throughout all this activity, the mouse talks back to him: ee! ee! ee!
I must conclude, therefore, that the toy mouse has warped his idea of death. It never dies. It is never silenced by fear. It is a worthy adversary, constantly returning, able to be flung down the hall in full chorus by any passing human and still be licked, chewed and purred over for the better part of two hours. Until the toy came back, it was a once-a-month-but-rarely event that we saw Bop with a real mouse, and then it would never be for long: either the mouse would die, or he'd let it escape. But now, whenever he's had a long stint with his toy, he goes and fetches a real mouse. And looks disappointed when it expires, or - presumably - we don't throw it for him to fetch. (He does play fetch, incidentally. Clearly some wires are crossed.)
Pet psychologists everywhere, eat your heart out.
At least, this is the logic under which Bop was operating last night. Having already woken Quine and me up by brawling furiously across our feet with Nano at 1:30, he came back an hour and a half later, walked around on us a bit, and then left, no doubt looking pleased with himself. Trying to fall back asleep after this interruption, I heard Quine mumble, 'I think there's a mouse in the bed.'
Any enthusiasm I might have felt at this knowledge was instantly quelled by the fact that I was (a) tired and (b) completely unbothered by the prospect, in the strange, detatched way of someone unwilling to get up for anything less than World War III or the next George R. R. Martin novel.
'Mmph,' said I, rolling over. I heard Quine rise - heard his feet shift on the wood as, with bleary ceremony, he examined our bed.
It was at this point I felt something twitching under the doona near my leg. Ah.
'Mouse,' I mumbled. Quine dove and, after a struggle of epic proportions, wrestled the invader into submission. I heard banging and muffled swearing, the unmistakeable sound of Bop and his latest gift being thrown unceremoniously out of the kitchen.
Quine returned. We went to sleep.
Ten minutes later, Bop - and his mouse - were back. A sterner, grumpier eviction followed, of which I took no part but relief when, after another return to restless sleep, the incident was not repeated a third time.
Whence, then, has come Bop's recent fascination with mice? I say 'recent,' because - unlike just about any other cat in the known universe - Bop is a fairly useless hunter. To date, he has caught two rats (one only rumoured by an old lady he used to visit) and a dove. Possibly, there is a small number of mice to add to this list, but I am disinclined to count them, owing to the fact that, nine times out of ten, he loses them; and on the other occasions, he's never quite sure what to do. In fact, whenever Bop manages to bring down a kill, he sings to it - a weird, lilting cat-croon that is quite different to his usual vocabulary, and which I have heard him use in no other context. It is as if he is mourning a dear friend, unable to understand why his companion of so many joyful minutes has suddenly quit the game midplay.
Certainly, he does nothing so vulgar as try to eat them: he goes on playing, and then - when they don't wake up - he makes eulogies. Contrast to Nano, who, owing to Bop's habit of eating both their dinners, often subsists on a diet composed enitrely of mice. She hunts with the brutal efficiency of the true predator, and eats in quick, small bites lest we try to steal her food. Her only efforts at display are to run in very quickly, prey in mouth, and growl, thereby announcing her prowess - but then she darts back out again, through the window and into the night. Or afternoon. Or morning.
But Bop - bless his velvet paws - is a special case. And I think, after our recent trip to Sydney, that I finally understand why.
As a kitten, our old neighbours gave him a particular cat-toy their own pet had rejected: a plush mouse, about the size of a golf ball, which squeaked realistically whenever it was moved. It didn't run on batteries, nor was it a chew-toy: it was more the kind of mechanism one finds in those little insect boxes in National Geographic, where the act of tilting said box causes it to chirrup. In any case, Bop fell madly in love - but when we moved to Melbourne, the mouse got left behind.
Recently, my parents found it again. We took brought it home after Christmas. Bop was wary at first, but seemingly, his memory of it has returned, because in almost a week and a half, he hasn't left the damn thing alone. He sleeps with it, either cuddled between his paws, safe under his belly or tucked beneath his chin. He disembowls it, bites it, chews it, rolls on it, throws it around and chases it, and throughout all this activity, the mouse talks back to him: ee! ee! ee!
I must conclude, therefore, that the toy mouse has warped his idea of death. It never dies. It is never silenced by fear. It is a worthy adversary, constantly returning, able to be flung down the hall in full chorus by any passing human and still be licked, chewed and purred over for the better part of two hours. Until the toy came back, it was a once-a-month-but-rarely event that we saw Bop with a real mouse, and then it would never be for long: either the mouse would die, or he'd let it escape. But now, whenever he's had a long stint with his toy, he goes and fetches a real mouse. And looks disappointed when it expires, or - presumably - we don't throw it for him to fetch. (He does play fetch, incidentally. Clearly some wires are crossed.)
Pet psychologists everywhere, eat your heart out.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
(Anti) Resolutions
At this time of year, tradition dictates a list of resolutions for the new annum - things we will strive to improve upon, take up or cut back for the wellbeing of our collective flesh and psyches. I have many such plans for 2008, but as listing them would constitute a trite and obvious exercise for everyone, here instead are ten things I will NOT be doing:
1. I will never again purchase and consume an entire family-size barbeque chicken in one go.
2. Bored to hunger, I will not return multiple times to hang on the door of my snackless fridge, hoping that somehow, new food has grown since I last looked.
3. I will no longer leave my clean washing on the line for a week and a half, then become irritated when it gets rained upon.
4. I will not ignore whatever housework needs doing in favour of sprawling listlessly on the lounge and bemoaning the fact that I have nothing to do.
5. I will not leave my shoes under the loungeroom table, the kitchen table, or anywhere else they can be simultaneously hidden from view and tripped over.
6. I will no longer rent shitty movies and fail to return them on time. Why the hell should I pay more for not having watched the entirety of Daredevil or Caligula? They suck.
7. I will no longer pretend that my preference for drinking bourbon and coke isn't boganly.
8. I will stop spending so much Goddam time on Facebook. Seriously. I mean it!
9. I will not learn to tap-dance.
And, finally:
10. I will not, under any circumstances - no matter how dire - regret that John Howard lost the election.
1. I will never again purchase and consume an entire family-size barbeque chicken in one go.
2. Bored to hunger, I will not return multiple times to hang on the door of my snackless fridge, hoping that somehow, new food has grown since I last looked.
3. I will no longer leave my clean washing on the line for a week and a half, then become irritated when it gets rained upon.
4. I will not ignore whatever housework needs doing in favour of sprawling listlessly on the lounge and bemoaning the fact that I have nothing to do.
5. I will not leave my shoes under the loungeroom table, the kitchen table, or anywhere else they can be simultaneously hidden from view and tripped over.
6. I will no longer rent shitty movies and fail to return them on time. Why the hell should I pay more for not having watched the entirety of Daredevil or Caligula? They suck.
7. I will no longer pretend that my preference for drinking bourbon and coke isn't boganly.
8. I will stop spending so much Goddam time on Facebook. Seriously. I mean it!
9. I will not learn to tap-dance.
And, finally:
10. I will not, under any circumstances - no matter how dire - regret that John Howard lost the election.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)