other people's words

one boy grew up different from the rest
without the insides of his chest
he didn't know how
he was blessed

asaf avidan

O, cat.

I've been thinking a lot lately about people and animals that are now dead. Not in a depressing way, but in a pleasant way. I must have been about eleven when I wrote my first message to Taco. I was sure that if I wrote in big. bright enough letters, she'd be able to not only see the words on the page, but make meaning out of them, too. And be able to pick up the marker and respond. Hi, Taco, I wrote. How are you? Are you okay? Do you like me? I love you.

I was pretty sure she wouldn't respond if I sat there watching and waiting, so I left the marker, uncapped of course, and the piece of paper sitting right in front of her on the windowsill. When I glanced back on my way out, she was staring intently at the marker, figuring out with all her might, I assumed, how to respond to such an intriguing inquiry into her life. The moment she'd been waiting for. I was a little nervous about what she'd say, but I really wanted to know if she, my beloved fat cat, actually liked me. While I wandered around outside, I imagined all the things she was writing, tediously, marker clamped between teeth, on the paper.
I like you, I guess. Whatever. Just don't pull my tail anymore. I hate that.

I used to get Taco to come out from under the bed so I could play or cuddle with her by pulling her out by the tail. By the time I was eleven, I had stopped doing that and I still feel bad about it. The little stupid things that somehow end up bothering you for the rest of your life. It's weird to think that I once did something cruel to an animal that I loved, or any animal. But I probably did something worse somewhere back in the early days. It just doesn't stick out in my memory.

I gave Taco nearly an hour. I wanted to make sure she had plenty of time to respond fully, but I also wanted to hold on to the little bit of magic I felt when I pictured her reading my message, thinking about it, and writing a response. Somewhere in the maturing part of my mind, in the part that was becoming more aware of reality and less attuned to magic, I knew that cats can't read. And they can't write. I didn't want to have to accept that.

When I returned, I immediately saw that the paper was exactly where I had left it on the windowsill, but Taco was nowhere to be seen. My heart sank a little. BUT! I realized, heart perking back up, the marker had also disappeared. I ran to the paper to see what she had written. Maybe it was bad news that she didn't want to have to watch me react to. I stared at the paper for a while, accepting things I didn't want to accept. Under the bed nearby, Taco snoozed off the activity of batting the marker across the room instead of answering my sincere questions. Maybe she dreamt of freedom. Maybe she dreamt of her kitten days. Maybe she dreamt of nothing at all.

  

Vois sur ton chemin.

Look to the path. It could lead you or one of your favorite songs anywhere.

Nightmares Abound

Somebody in my neighborhood is practicing the piano. Every now and then, they make a mistake, but it sounds good. It sounds clear and bright and cheerful, like what you'd expect to hear coming from a piano at a Mothers' Day brunch. Hopeful.
In a different neighborhood far away, but not too far, my Syrian friend's family is thinking about how they'll get bread and vegetables tomorrow. Will they cross the street to buy what they need or will they go with what little they have left. If they cross the street, will they get shot or will the friend behind them get shot or will it be okay.
In a different neighborhood quite far away, my mom's friend's husband is recovering from a stroke and dying from cancer and getting ready for a surgery to repair his broken arm.
In my apartment, cockroaches and spiders and flies are dying from the pesticide that was sprayed on Friday, and are then getting flushed down the toilet. In comparison, it is nothing.
But what beauty is left here? Is the piano enough to make up for the nightmares we all face and the nightmares we all create?
  

I don't want to be loud, but sometimes I get tired of being quiet in a world that favors the presence of sound.
I don't want to be a man, but sometimes I get tired of being a woman in a world that favors the presence of men.

Dear Stranger,

Dare I say friend. I wouldn't be writing to you, but I'm afraid my situation has become quite dire. I believe my life is indeed in danger. I've been trapped in this room for over a week now and can find no way out. I've tried crawling under the door, but something's blocking it. Books, maybe? I've explored every square inch of this room and can find no crack, no crevice, no weakness. If this letter is to reach you, whoever you are, perhaps you can send help? I don't even know where I am, so I can't give you directions. All I can do is hope that somebody, anybody finds this in time and knows what to do.

All I remember was trying to fly home from Tivak Park. Then a powerful burst of wind blew me into this room. This damn room. At first, I thought it'd be okay. I was a bit flustered and frightened, but I clung to the curtains as the wind died down and I started to feel warm and safe. I knew I was in one of your homes. I could tell. It's easy to spot a human home...with all the lights and straight lines and carpet and fake things. And food. Your homes are very comfortable, I must say, but I didn't want to stay there. It wasn't my home.

Just as I was about to take off through the window and back into the night and try to find my way, a lady appeared in front of me. I've never come so close to a human before. She could see me from across the room and didn't take her eyes off me. She walked slowly up to me, and then just stared, without making a sound. A perfectly still, silent stare. For a long time. I thought maybe it'd be okay. Maybe she didn't mind me being there for a bit. Her expression was very difficult to read. So I decided not to try and fly at that instant. It might frighten her. Us cockroaches have a bad reputation for being frightening to humans. Well, you know now. I'm a cockroach. But I'm not that bad. I'm not. I've got a family and I feel horribly knowing that they must be worried sick about me right now.

I wish now I had flown. Right at her face and right out of that room, instead of sitting there like a hopeful idiot while she slowly closed the window, backed out of the room, and then returned with her phone. I could be at home now, safe and warm under the kitchen sink with my family. Instead, I just sat there, feeling a bit stunned that she was taking my picture. For the briefest of moments, I thought she actually liked me. I thought she was taking my picture because she thought I was beautiful and interesting and that she was glad I was there. And that she wasn't like those other humans that throw shoes at me. I thought maybe we were turning over some sort of new leaf in the human-cockroach interaction. Ha, I'm such an idiot.

After she took my picture, she stood there in front of me, never letting me out of her sight, for a long time, looking at something on her phone. I know now that she was researching cockroaches and how to kill them. As you might guess, things got worse for me at that point. You humans are so strange. So selfish. You fill the world with the fruits and fouls of your labor, you take everything from us, from the world, and turn it into something fancy, something stupid - a basketball, a car, a parking lot, a latte, a magazine, a cookie - and you get angry at us when we accidentally show up in your home.

Your home? This tall and crumbling block apartment that has been here for a mere 30 years? Where you sit amongst your items. Where you surround yourself by the outputs of other people's tiresome jobs. Where there used to be, not that long ago, orange trees and olive branches and pelicans and goats and leopards and sea turtles. And cockroaches. Your apartment here is 30 years old. My home here is 250 million years old. And the respect I am shown is a spray bottle full of soap and water, from which I barely escaped. Then a slammed door. And now silence. Nothingness. No escape.

A room full of your things and I am miserable and dying and alone. So if you, my friend, my kind stranger, happen to find this letter, could you please tell her to let me out. Tell her to let me go back to my home. To my dear sweet family. To what has been mine for millions of years. Please convince her that this is not right. It isn't fair. I have the feeling that I am not going to last much longer, but at least I know that I am only one of many. That 30 years is nothing compared to 250 million. That my family's future is going to last longer than yours. That your things and your jobs have gotten you nowhere, and that we will persist in being where we belong, where we always have been, for the duration of your visit here.
Just tell her that for me, could you please? Thanks.                

I fell asleep with the breeze and awoke with the wind. The wind was strong enough that it was carrying the stars away, one by one. My little pellets of night light were being taken away. Far away. I knew immediately that this was tragic and I'd miss them deeply. But they were happier there, together with the wind, far away. I got up and closed the balcony door. I fell back asleep with stillness and stumbled into a monsters' wedding where I was laughed at and poked in the ribs and made to stand on a table alone. The bride and the groom stood in front of me with stones in their gnarly hands. Their noses were huge and bulbous and flopping down in front of their jagged, crooked mouths so that none of their words made any sense. Eventually, sunlight dissipated the wedding party and dissolved the stones and brought me back to life. I don't dream often anymore, but when I do it's terrifying.