My cats picked up a habit where he looks at mirrors whenever he wants something.
Initially I thought he was looking for another cat, then his lost bother or maybe it was a habit we’d conditioned. Every time he wanted attention, food or water he’d look at any reflective surface he could find and meow at it
But I see him stare, look close, look far into it. I wonder if it’s not us he’s talking to. If he isn’t calling us through the mirror. Maybe he’s looking to himself, affirming he’s there, that he feels what he does and that what he sees is what he is.
What does it take for a cat to know himself?
Up my arms
A shiver at the rustling
Sorting through the keys
We pause and smile
Shimmering in moonlight
Cool breeze swirls around the closed door
A spider with only a thread
Flying blind, I see spider cracks
I bought bright padlocks
For her backpack
A funeral, her first trip
My grandfather points to the sleeping cat to ask “Why didn’t God give them speech? Isn’t that a mistake? You think dogs would eat their own shit if they could talk?”
Words of wisdom to start your week to. Well it’s nearing the end of the year so I guess I could carry it forward. I like the irreverance of it all. This year’s been slow on the writing. Can’t be creative when you’re trying to get it right. How less could you stumble onto these kind of important questions?
It compeles me to try and reach some kind of worthy follow up for an answer. But it is it’s own kind of profound. Don’t answer it, just ask the question. Savour the lack in any answer to it and you can get anywhere you’d like. That’s how you avoid having nothing to say.
Or at least that’s how easy things look in hindsight. I’m not sure where all this is going, this is really just a bit of goaless writing which is a kind of liberating I haven’t know for a while. So cheers to that.
Hermit in a slum, walled in by his own desires, he watches the street lose meaning. It loses shape, it loses people, it seems to devour lives whole as one family after the other goes missing.
Stand on loose sand while waves move past you and you feel the ground give away while you stay rooted. That’s what our hermit felt when one day after some private tragedy he stood rooted and numb in his little hollow where he would hide from the receding tide. Without purpose and without reasonable fear, isolated he became an unwilling repository of a changing street, a city getting faster and further away from a man who dared not take a step forward.
He spoke slowly like his voice was traveling from his past, but it was really the present that occupied him. He squinted at the future or at least it’s portents. His world was just omens seen in the poorly behaved children, the failures of parents, the careless people who had lost their way while his despair stayed quiet.
Somewhere, sometime unknown to the hermit, he went from man to creature in a scary story. Emerging from shadows, inhabiting forests and mountains that protagonists journey to slay beats in. In silence he grew demonic, frightful for a future that would never take him. Doomed, the merciless tide would drown him.
Sunlight and breezy leaves
paint the cat,
with tiger stripes
I prefer your lies to mine.
They live on, in my nightmares.
Fading glimmers where the tunnel ends.
The crickets and
their entrenched audience
drenched street bench
dogs begging right by
the homeless man
a quiet gratitude
in their company
Reading through websites that died before the 2010’s is like reading an old newspaper.
There’s this brevity with everything that was possible only when you had your pages clutter free to accomodate slow internet speeds. It makes sense why they’d appropriate the style of writing you’d expect in a newspaper. But the writing knew it’s audience would already be looking elsewhere for the news so had to report with a difference.
There’s this earnest and unfamiliar sensibility you keep noticing. Clearly they’ve take a few cues but nothing is passé yet, no aggregators eating up all the views and the viewers are explorers stumbling and moving with no direction in place. You aren’t a subscriber, readers, customer, and statistic just yet. The webmasters were trying to sell you on what you liked, not what you wanted. Nothing is polished and the webpages are all bling and gaudy wallpaper.
There’s an erratic, broken and unfinished feel about all of it. Everything you read isn’t all from the internet so there’s a real person’s voice someone’s experience, because what else can you put up there? It went on and off, and the scale for a lot of people wasn’t that crazy. It let you kinda make it your own, you weren’t looking for those numbers if you were just someone else trying things out.
More than that, the blogs just start and stop, everything’s on a whim and there wasn’t much to be invested in. I mean I’m reading through an old guide to Bangalore buried and nearly invisible under all the new content from about 9 identical apps wondering what it is that makes the words feel so different and honest while the authors as they were in those pieces are probably long gone and their writing lost as well. You go with the tide or it drowns you out.
It was still a soapbox where they didn’t seem to know there were rules, that there was some algorithm to chase-nor did they fear those algorithmic ups and downs. It’s a clear voice talking from a place that’s clearly offline, closer to the real world.
Maybe I’m cooking up a rosy past but the authors have no name, no pictures, no profiles, no bios but a few paragraphs about the restaurants they like around town has told me far more than those could ever have.
To me, new apartment
To them, old tenants, the past
Left behind in the storeroom
A briefcase- inside pictures,
Undeveloped rolls , fact books
Notebooks and diaries
An entire life, left behind
Tucked away in a storeroom
To be opened later, an entire life
Birds of prey
Corner of the page
every turn of my life
Birds of prey
watching me coldly
Marking me from trees
rhyming at me,
Every silver lining, spying
strife of the midwives
Archives of the afterlife
calling, wanting and watching
Birds of prey
bray grey cliches
Colour my decay
play games of dismay