The Art of Speech

(Stanford ---above photo)

…I kept walking …and walked …

…

Some more ---

I finally got to the hub of the city. I could blend-in together with the rest and finally relax. I was walking for some time to be invisible while in public. I saw a seat. I rushed over to sit on it: but instead of relaxation I felt bewilderment!

Once I was ‘in the heart’, the hub of this city, I was certainly visible to myself. I pulled into myself, as the people passed me by like ghosts. I wondered if they saw me ---as I saw them? They were holding it tight, not allowing for any speculation. I tried to do the same …and tried ….but it was difficult,

The people were different. Their movements were robotic, practiced, as if read in a book somewhere. If I wasn’t in such a state of confusion, I would have gone down a list of explainable reasons, justifying ---all I saw. Instead, I thought about my breathing and took a seat to view this new hub ---once an old hub in an even older city.

I had to; I had to begin the scrutinizing. The people looked lethargic, but still, they all had the energy for a smile. Whenever a ‘wronging’ happened they just crumbled and laid down. They took it, as I stood up and screamed at the infraction. They smiled and let it all happen. My hub started spinning. I started falling and grabbed some people in the crowd.

They turned their smile off at the disturbance I caused. They screamed, as I laughed, in utter confusion; Their scream was screamed in a different language.

Now, where I was ---wasn’t where I wanted to be. I was worried about my ‘state of mind’, as I looked up at a circle of people staring and frowning while screaming.

But these, perhaps hallucinations, happened to me almost always while in public ---as of late. I had to talk to Stanford, but frist ---I tried to talk to somebody in the screaming circle. Back and forth the confusion went: I heard something incoherent, and so, quickly I was in a panic to get away.

To Stanford’s; I must go. The one who would tell me the truth: Is what I saw when in public ---really what I saw? I had to know. I had to talk to him. He spoke my language.

I called Stanford. He answered and I started to tell him my problems. I couldn’t wait to tell him my problems, not even long enough for him to grab a chair to sit on. I pounced on him, and ---all about me.

I couldn’t trust anything, I told him, got desperate, I exclaimed to him, and told him I’d be right over. I didn’t wait for an answer.

I hailed a cab and when we finally arrived the cabbie and I argued what the meter actually ‘said’. He won. I knocked on Stanford’s door. Just being at Stanford’s home I was starting to feel better. Of all the ‘beings’ I’ve known and have known, Stanford’s perspective is a combination on top of these many other combinations of different perspectives –--and combined once again ---to clarity!? Stanford had never failed me. He let me in,

I took a seat on his so-called sofa. Stanford ran to the window. He stared outside. I talked. He stared out the window. I started to tell him about my problems. I got into every detail. Every few moments of my misery monologue I got up and exclaimed with my arms my sincerity.

He stared out the window. I continued with my misery monologue for one hour without a break. He stared out the window, so finally I said, “#%@@$ you! What ---you can’t speak?”

I got up to leave. Stanford followed me to the door. He hadn’t said a thing during my entire monologue. When I got to the door he opened it for me, he actually bowed to me, “I’m sorry," he said, "But I hate to speak English: Horrible language! And also, with something so enormous like this ---you can lose a lot on translation.” He put his paw on my shoulder, "Good Luck!"

The End

Note to reader: Look at the post, “A Cat’s Angst,” for an excellent photo of Stanford.

A Cat's Angst

(Stanford ---above photo)

Pet Guy grabbed Stanford, lifted him high, smiled, but hugged him so hard he slightly "yelped!" They were hugging in the doorway. Pet Guy had one foot in and one foot out, still, it seemed it was going to be some time before they separated.

But it was actually Pet Guy who first dropped his arms and separated from Stanford. Both of them needed ‘a moment’. Then: “Good-Bye!” was said to each other.

Stanford had finally graduated school and ---he had his dreams to attend to. Pet Guy knew this; of course, nonetheless, just as Stanford turned to leave, he grabbed his shirt sleeve and stared deep into his eyes, “don’t let an apposable thumb stop you from your dreams.” Stanford started running. Pet Guy jogged after him, “Hey! Stanford! –Paws just might be good enough. You’ll know Stanford ---You’ll know. You’ll know when. I love you!”

He watched Stanford leave. How did it happen? He asked ---It was only a few months ago when Stanford was little. His eyes were still on Stanford. He sat down as Stanford first hid under a shrub, stood motionless, and then another shrub ---and another, until he could no longer be seen. Pet Guy stood up and screamed, “You’ll know When! I love you!”

Stanford’s dream was to be a painter. Stanford had been painting since he started school, probably, because he had such a difficult childhood. It was always difficult for Stanford. Those first few years at school, sure he could run faster than anybody else, but as his classmates grew and he stopped growing: He was humiliated constantly.

So when they all joined together and played dodge-ball, Stanford would release all his angst. As the dodge ball came his way, with one swipe, he’d shred the ball, and then he’d really pounce on it and shred it to pieces, all while his classmates screamed objections. It got really ugly, sometimes ---because he’d go after his classmates. The children sometimes limped away with an injury requiring stitches.

To Stanford, they spoke a completely different language. So the moment the bell rang echoing the end of another school day, he’d sprint home to his cure, to his passion, his love: Painting!

But the letters from school?! The letters the teachers wrote about Stanford’s ‘strange behavior’ seemed constant ---“Extremely inappropriate behavior,” seemed included in every letter. And also, “About twenty percent of the day he’s completely ‘unreachable’, as he stares out the window.” Almost every week the both of them seemed to end up in the principal’s office.

Stanford seemed constantly angry, like he had been cheated out of something. If painting had come easy to him ---who knows? He wasn’t a ‘natural’ painter. The first week, which can be easily explained away, he broke his paint brush and almost gouged-out his eye. Why he’d attempt to paint perplexed even Pet Guy.

So Stanford finally left ‘the nest’---to be a cat/man. Pet Guy will always remember that day. But, as the years past, they became nothing to Pet Guy without Stanford: Mere numbers. Soon, it was now the ‘zeroes’ (2000), and now, the new century was about to become a teenager, he thought.

But Stanford never came home, again! Not even to visit. Now Friday wasn’t a day of celebration for Pet Guy, it was a day of waiting. Tomorrow in the mail-box would be Stanford’s letter. He sent a letter home every week, but one letter rarely varied from the next:

“Hi! –Having the time of my life. Tomorrow I’ll be in the beautiful country of Turkey, and then to Argentina, to China, I’m going everywhere to learn from the masters, and I have no idea where I’ll be tomorrow. Love ‘ya!

Sincerely, Stanford

Every day, and then year to year, the loneliness Pet Guy felt became unbearable. He had to see about his boy.

He went looking for Stanford and found him in the ‘tenderloin’ district of San Francisco California U.S.A. Some would say this was, especially at night, a very dangerous area of the city. Pet Guy opened the door of Stanford’s ‘flop-house’ and he was sitting on his bed ---smoking Crack-Cocaine!

He was unshaven, looked unhealthy, and when he saw Pet Guy he just nodded and loaded his Crack pipe, inhaled ---exhaled and roared ---“I’m the one. I did it.”

“You did what?”

Stanford got up and fell back down on his bed. His head fell into his paws. “I’m just not good enough. I’m no good. Now ---I know. No good!” He got up, held both his arms out, like an agile-less cat? ---and leaned against his dresser. He smiled, pointed to the dresser, while his thumb-less paw-hand trembled, “It’s in the top-drawer!”

Pet Guy ‘fell to pieces’ ---but quickly came to Stanford’s defense, “I can't look up there Stanford! I can't! It’s because you don’t have an apposable thumb. It's tough to paint without one. That's all!”

“That's all? -No, there’s plenty more, like a dozen or so. Now ---it’s just the beginning. I plan to confess to the authorities ---today. Today!”

“You’re going to confess for what! –For what Stanford?!!”

Stanford opened the very top drawer. “Look inside,” he said.

“No ---I can’t, what have you done?” Pet Guy reached out to hug Stanford. He was rejected.

“If you can’t look there look at my neck.” Stanford said.

Pet guy looked at his neck ---looked down ---began to cry: Stanford had cut off an apposable thumb from some human, painted a marijuana leaf on the thumb’s nail, and swung it on his neck --- like a trophy!

The End

A Conversation with a Cat

Pet guy was on his bed, horribly sick, near death ---but pulled away from the end as he heard a voice.

“You’ve been in bed, sick, for seven days. Pet Guy, are you feeling better?” The voice said.

“Who’s talking to me? I’ve been hearing the most soothing, understanding, sensitive ‘being’. Where is that ‘being’. Where is that voice?” Pet Guy sat up to a vertical position. He was recovering ---because of a conversation with his cat?

He then heard the shuffling of papers, as if the voice was readying for a speech. Soon it was absolutely silent. It was, the moment! ---The defying moment Pet Guy had been waiting for ...all his life: To talk with a different species, especially his cat! Pet Guy heard a voice ask, “I need an interlocutor.”

“Who needs an interlocutor?” The voice made Pet Guy suddenly feel weak. In his confusion he was sure the sickness was back. But in his panic he screamed, “Who’s talking to me!”

“Pet Guy, it’s me, Stanford, your cat. You don’t need to scream.” Stanford was no less than three inches from Pet Guy’s face.

Stanford’s voice was the voice of a child’s, yet between the tiny vocal cords vibrating Pet Guy could heard incredible maturity. He looked up at the symmetry, Stanford’s face, beautiful, ruggedly handsome. And then the contrast: a little gray whisker completely different from his others!

“You need a what?” Pet Guy said, now calmer.

“I need an interlocutor.”

“I’m sorry, just one more time. You need a what?”

“You know, a ‘being’, a friend, a buddy to speak with. I need somebody to talk with. I want somebody on my side no matter what.”

“Stanford, those are big words, perfect words, such beautiful words. I want what you want. Why did you wait so long to speak them?” Pet Guy was now sure ‘the voice’ was Stanford, his cat. The color in his face came back, “I’ve been waiting almost a decade to speak with you. I needed you countless times.” Stanford’s thin black lips were opening and closing …oozing profundity! “But who uses the word ---interlocutor?”

“I do. Is the usage improper?”

“No it isn’t Stanford. I love that word. I can’t get enough of that word. My conversationalist, it feels so good to say that.” Stanford stretched his body to reach Pet Guy. Their noses touched like in a kiss. Stanford’s nose was wet.

“I thought this was the right time. That was a close one buddy.” His thin black lips parted, and he smiled, while Pet Guy smiled right back at him. “It was awfully close!” Stanford repeated

“What was a close one?”

“Your fever got extremely high. I wasn’t sure if you’d pull through. I wasn’t sure if we’d ever become interlocutors. I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I feared I had waited too long to speak. Two days ago you’re fever peaked at one-hundred and five.” He put his paw on Pet Guy’s forehead. “You’re fever is gone, what a relief!” Stanford almost crumbled with that realization. He took a huge breath and exhaled slowly. “No fever.”

“Can I say something that might embarrass you?” Pet Guy turned at an angle, making his face unobservable for Stanford.

“You couldn’t say anything that would embarrass me.”

“Can I say, only death will separate us?” Stanford jumped on the bed where Pet guy was lying. He put his paw on his forehead.

“Of course you can Pet Guy. Everything takes a lot of time, its tough work to be happy, but Pet Guy, together, we’ll have this!”

“Yes we will ---interlocutor!” Pet Guy said, as he grabbed Stanford to hug.

The End

Stanford's Art Gallery

I walked down Geary St in San Francisco, California, down through Union Square, to a little alley called Maiden Lane. Instantly, as I made that turn, I saw cats smoking, painting, and talking. I over-heard their conversations enviably talking about Stanford. They saw me and became motionless, measuring me. I gave them a nod, and they continued with their superlatives about Stanford, as I continued, ignored. I saw a sign: ‘Stanford’s Art Gallery'. I was where I should be.

The moment inside the gallery several items were dropped in my hand. In awe I held them. Stanford made them for me by hand, or, with his own two paws. It was exaggerated colors and beauty, similar to his Gallery. It was a hat and a matching scarf. Suddenly I felt like an artist. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, twice.

Stanford’s preparedness is impeccable; he tailors my clothes, his, and the rest of the crew, with uncanny detail. His tuxedo is immaculate, always, with a perfectly symmetrical hole for his tail. I’ve always wondered, ‘How does he do it?’ Without superlatives, and without questions, he’s a post-modern renaissance cat! He’s already taken over the books, and has re-built what a fledgling business once was into: Talk around town.

Every night the smell of Stanford’s taste and wisdom billow out into the street, and soon Stanford’s Gallery is filled to capacity. Every patron that enters is greeted by Stanford like a long last friend. His tail, always, is moving in perfect sync, either because of noise from the gallery, or from noises in the street. He kisses everybody’s hand and check, old woman blush. There’s nothing else to say---he’s one charming cat! Everybody loves Stanford! I love Stanford ---he’s my cat!

The End

Securing the Perimeter

The blinds across the street quickly opened, and then, only the reflection of an eye could be seen peering out. But with this view, The Man could see, once again, his neighbors sitting in the street, dressed in their P.J.’s. They were sitting close together, hugging, in a circle, with their heads gently pressed against each other, in an effort to get some sleep ---as comfortable as possible.

The Man’s eyes then ran straight through his neighbor’s blinds, through the cracks in-between. He knew the going’s on inside his neighbor’s house. Yes he did. He saw the neighbor’s fastidious cat making the shadows move ---all across their walls. It was Mind-Blowing!

As he stared at the in-betweens dance on his neighbor's walls, he thought, “Well, it’s incredible, just the logistics involved, my goodness,” and, “not to mention the absolute feeling of complete security that follows, and with such a fastidious approach. You now, even when at ease, sometimes I’ve seen that cat run around an illusionary track and field, ya ---just for the heck of it.”

“It’s absolute genius, absolute, frigging genius.” He even reminded himself, or just remembered that he rarely, if ever, used ‘genius’ to describe …anything! “Anything!” He never used the word genius. Also, he knew that just thinking of the work that needed to be done on his own home, where a comparison wouldn’t be considered a complete joke, with him and neighbor …seemed lifetimes away. It was just too overwhelming! To The Man what was going on at his neighbor’s house could easily be compared to any of the greatest things!

But just as he and I predicted, The Man was quickly exhausted by the view, and perhaps, taken a little ‘off-guard’, so maybe, The Man was a little pissed-off! ---Thus exhausted and pissed-off, simultaneously, quite combustible if you think about it. He got on his P.J.’s and lay on his bed with his arms folded across his chest.He awoke his wife by clearing his throat. “Honey, we really need to get a cat. Have you the noticed the activities across the street?”

“What?” The wife said.

“You haven’t noticed what’s been going on across the street?”

“Yes, I’ve noticed, they go to work, come home, have dinner with their children, talk about their day, and go to bed. There’s nothing going on across the street.”

“You complete idiotic whore! Sorry. But do you know what’s ‘really’ going on across the street. I’ll tell you: Work! Work!!! Their cat, single-handily, has accomplished the impossible. They have no more anxiety, complete harmony. Their cat has permeated the feeling of safety in every corner of that frigging house. They even feel safe miles away.”

“Really? How has their cat accomplished this …utopia?”

“What? How is the completion of the impossible possible, well, it’s done the only way, it’s always done …the American way! Their cat saw that work had to be done and jumped in. First, he pick picked up an electrical Toshiba tool and started to get to work. The margin of error, I’ve never seen anything like it. He cut perfect holes so that just his body could maneuver threw, to observe attacks from so-called,’ bad-guys’, or so-called, ‘undesirables’!’”

“His normal duties are exhausting just in there discussing. As we sweep around the house starting from the North, the holes with the perfect forty five degree cuts, only there for his observation, are also there for the inevitable stopping of these so-called ---‘undesirables!’

“He runs from one defensive position to the next, and, All night long! It’s nothing, well, he’s nothing but admirable. That’s one hell of a cat! Just last week, while I was staring at him, he stared right back at me--- ‘What the fuk are you looking at’, was his expression as he stared at me, for three hours straight, and, without moving a muscle!

He’s the busiest guy alive, and that’s a fact. He never goes a day without punching the clock. That cat thinks normal-time is over-time! What a Cat!”

The End

KILLER

(A Killer, above ---20 to life in maximum security)

In a far away, blurry, illusionary world, our story begins as two streets intersect, next to the local watering hole, with our hero knee-deep in whiskey: Total flood damage of the liver. He couldn't leave, nor did he want to leave this beautiful amber-colored world. In this world your decisions are made for you, but unfortunately, to a place where future plans are unnecessary. In this golden land he’s been attached to a bar stool, with a heavy duty chain, and a lock, seemingly without a key.

On this night without a moon, he searched in his pockets and found a large key. He couldn’t believe it had sitting there all these years. With tremendous amounts of fear he inserted the key into the lock and set himself free. “Could it be this easy,” he asked, and walked out of the bar into the night air, with a new moon.

He saw a dead man’s name atop a street sign, and sadly, he could see that in every direction, everything eventually faded to black, a black so consuming he saw himself old, dying, atop his death bed.

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want streets named after me, I prefer anonymity, but I’ve never tried harder to accomplish anything but that eventuality. I’ve held the whiskey so close, for so long, oh how I love it so! ‘To smash the mirrors’, like they say, maybe that’s what I need. I want all the images of me; mirrors and reflections in windows, reflections in another’s eyes, and all the pictures of me put in a pile soaked in gasoline. I need to be startled. I need a new beginning, it seems to be everywhere.”

“I have to start over.” He felt his eyes pool. “I know now that this life is plenty long enough. Yet, I’ve let it slip through my mind: A life unlived. I need to get back to some rudimentary ideas, blood runs, something extreme. Maybe nature …to the ‘ultimate rudimentary of being’ should be my goal: to run naked, to kill without fear or guilt! Up in the desert; his friend said, is a place that'll startle you, and make you hesitate.

So he ran, rather stumbled home and drank a liter of coffee. He threw some rags in a bag, and pounded a hammer on his starter motor. He began to drive to the desert. His legs were trembling as his foot released the clutch. He hadn’t left the city where he lived ---in over twenty years.

He drove through the San Joaquin Valley. It was hot. His foot pressed the accelerator harder to relieve him from it. It kept following him, the heat mixed with smog. But through the smog he dreamed he saw his salvation, ‘The Great Barrier’, or the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

A green and lush world would appear first, and just past that, a different world, the desert, where in both worlds, nothing but honesty. It all seemed to rhythm, and he wasn’t even there yet.

He was still in the muck, the smog, the filth, as it followed him up to the summit. The entire ride up the mountains he felt as if a hand was trying to stop him. At every juncture, at every turn, he felt scared, he was sure some tragedy at some point in time had occurred, “These Mountains are untamable!” But he continued on, trembling. Finally he was squirted out of ‘The Great Barrier’, into, ‘The Great Basin’. With a huge sigh he made a right off of Highway 80 to see his friend who lived in the desert.

After the pleasantries were exchanged with his friend, something soft and smooth curled around his ankles, purring in a way that soothed him. It was his friend’s cat. He exclaimed, “What innocence this cat has in its face. I’m in love!”

But he was tired, it was late. His friend told him she had a bed waiting and warm for him. As he pulled the covers over his body, at first, the desert made him feel horrible loneliness. But the pendulum swung as he got warm. It was all turned on its head, and the only way to describe his feelings then was…‘a final resting place, home’. He awoke refreshed the next morning:

I awoke before my friend did. I had coffee and plenty of cigarettes, but a distraction, somewhere, seemed constant. I burned my finger with my cigarette thinking about it. A strange light came through my friend’s house. It even seemed to be creeping underneath her doors. But …it was so enchanting. I opened the drapes on my friend’s window. The sky was a blue I had never seen before. In the city the filth rises up quickly. It’s probably always there, at night when we’re asleep, even then I’m sure. It doesn’t have enough time to escape. The manufacturing process must be constant.

I opened up my friend’s sliding glass door. I took a seat on a large wooden chair and found myself on my friend’s porch, a hundred square foot structure for reflection. It was cool and oxygenated from her desert plants. The desert was my friends backyard, and as I turned my head west, something entirely different. It was a green mountain. I saw obvious stages to this, incongruity, like an infant, growing, evolving; infant, toddler, adolescent, adult, middle-aged, and the final stage. I had all day, or at least until my friend awoke to ruminate about this.

I said I opened my friend's sliding glass door, but also ---left it open. I didn’t think the porch and its view could hold me, at attention almost. My friend’s cat must have followed me out, because I saw something though heard nothing, hence, I ignored everything, but the all-so-blue-sky.

When I eventually turned my head to my right ---my friend’s cat was sitting on her porches four foot wall. The cat had flattened its body. All of its muscles were taut. It was ready. The only muscles that moved showed the cat where his objective was at. What was it? What was the objective? It was stuck. I was stuck, but stuck on what?

“It couldn’t have been more than three seconds. It was real; life or death. I was finally startled, and soon, once again, I was interested in this life.”

The cat jumped down on the porch floor. I didn’t hear a sound, but miraculously saw it materialize on the other corner of the porch, closer to its objective. He flattened his body further, almost completely flat now. Life and death was about to happen before my eyes. Life death, a battle to decide it all would soon take place. But:

The cat was now directly below me. He then sprinted fifteen feet North West, closer to his objective, under a desert Juniper shrub. Then I couldn’t see him, but I could see his objective as I looked ten feet further. Inside another Juniper bush I saw movements from what appeared to be a tramped bird, trying frantically to escape. Then I, and to this day, still believe I saw a trail from the cats movements lingering there, in mid-air, lunging, long after I heard my friend’s cat scream: Attack! The cat was successful as I heard the death rattle from the bird. And later still, just a moment, which was a life: Nothing could be heard from the cat and or the bird. A murder had occurred!

Link to story: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/38862604/from/?beginSlide=1>1=43001
The End

When the Stars Shine at Night

These notes were found in the top drawer of the physician's desk:

With a hammer I've decided to begin this story, the story about Subject-16353-H. With only a hammer can you discuss such a tragedy, I believe, and also, to amplify one sentient-being's tragedy, you amplify the fact that our subject's story is being repeated across the globe. I'm sorry to say, our subject's story is definitely a daily story.

That was the physician's writing. If you want to continue reading I must warn you, for some this might be a little ...uncomfortable. Are you ready? Okay, and even though these notes were mere fragments of thoughts, a streaming conscious approach used by the physician, I'll do my best to distill the essence. Thank you. (Subject-16353-H ---Above photo ---see foot note below, # 1)

It's when the stars shine at night that Subject-16353-H comes to life. When people leave their homes bundled tight from the cold, he must prowl the streets looking for anything 'rudimentary' for survival. It's in the nooks, through others discarded garbage, through broken shards of glass that our Subject finds the necessities for life. When most of us pulling the blankets tighter over our heads, this is when it begins for our Subject. Most nights shadows are mistaken for killers more sadistic than the next.

So ...into the darkness he roams. He finds his favorite nook. His eyes pan his environment, quite a nice vantage point. But of course it's only temporary. He has to remain nomadic. But he sees all the danger here, all the vulnerabilities across his perimeter. His eyes dart to the weaknesses, for a moment, and then he moves to the next. Circularly he does this, never actually having his eyes stay on 'any one thing'. The weaknesses are all over, given equal attention if he can.

He stays in his nook for three hours, motionless. But his muscles are strung tight. He's ready at an instant if he has to be. The only movements he'll allow himself are his protecting eyes. They scan his perimeter relentlessly.

But suddenly, it appears as if his perimeter will be breached. A figure is coming at him at an incredible speed. The collision will take place in 10, 9, 8, 7; he's caught off-guard, frozen. The breach has occurred with a scream, "Tom just got it!"

(His friend ---above photo, who said, "Tom just got it!")

"What did you just say? Did you say that Tom just got it?"

"Yup."

"Oh man! That's just horrible. Hey! ---don't stand up, we weren't meant to live that way. Come on down into my nook with me."

"Really?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course."

"Thanks. Hey ...you wouldn't have believed it if you saw it."

"What, really, that bad, I'm so sorry."

"I couldn't understand it. I mean it was horrible. They all took their sweet time!"

"What happened?"

"Well ...Tom tried to make that hairy intersection, you know the one. He saw a half eaten sandwich just sitting there across the street, so he had to go for it. You would have done the same. He almost made it, but a car just clipped him. So ya, Tom lay there in the gutter bleeding to death. But still they just stared at his agony not knowing what to do. But then, they looked in his back pocket for some identification, and it was confirmed: Tom was a CAT!?! Just a minute later he died right there in that gutter! I doubt I'll ever get over it." They hugged.

Foot note # 1: He's scared!

The Group of Seven

In loving memory of Stanford
(Above photo)

To the day that changed everything for our diametric Pet Guy …

Pet Guy rushed home those last few blocks, flinging open the doors of his home, which he shared with Stanford, his partner and absolute confidant. He had only left for a carton of milk, but he 'knew' something had happened, and so, the mad, ‘out-of breathe-dash’ home.

And then the unanswered, “Hellos,” escalating the anxiety manifold, and the tragic view! Stanford had one paw folded underneath his head, on his desk ---dead! Stanford’s book, “Washing Cars,” had fallen out of his other paw on the floor, finished! His other paw was curled and rigid, reaching, a hollow, last gasp for a falling book, but so monumental: A beginning and an end simultaneously?

Stanford looked so beautiful, even without life, fading to black so rapidly, from summer to death of winter. Now his perfectly symmetrical face was completely white, except for that different colored little whisker. He had a peaceful smile on his face with his thin black lips ever so slightly parted. He had finally finished his book! After countless edits it was eventually how he wanted it. To actually ‘live a life’ was a prerequisite to write it!

At the sight of the tragic view Pet Guy crumbled. He slept. He draped his arm over Stanford, if only from habit. Now he was outside. The mind and body of our Pet Guy seemingly had been split apart. Stanford at one point held the glue. As the sun broke the night each morning, he saw himself sleep ---when asleep. He was a stranger, even to himself. Everything was different. Everything moved differently, almost shutting-off. The days; no different from one to the other.

But …one day, finally, the sun was able to penetrate the gloom. It seemed to have help, as it crept under the door, and through little nooks. He awoke, now sitting up in his bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he left his home. But the light creeping into his apartment held ...such enchantment! He stood up, and in whatever clothes he could find, now stood outside. He reached his arms up, trying to refresh himself ---but was ...suddenly …amazed.

The wall of their apartment building held the enchantment, as it …‘held color’. The light that crept under his door and through those nooks, danced over the blending colors. On the west facing side of their apartment complex, was now a painting, a mural, huge ---monumental art. He walked closer to examine it, “Could it be true?” He asks.

In the bottom right corner he sees Stanford’s signature. Below that, in a cat vernacular, a poem was written. He slowly rubs his fingers over every brush stroke, but suddenly, startled, he jumps and turns. Directly in front of his room, a group of people have formed, seven of them. He runs to the group to hide them from his home, from Stanford sleeping dead on his bed. The group of people and Pet Guy now face each other.

“Everything has been taken care of,” a member of the group says while holding Stanford. All the people are holding cats. The cat's head jerk, as their eyes snap-shot his every movement. “Stanford is dead! What are you doing with Stanford?” He screams.

“Stanford is a cat.” Another member of the group speaks, almost in a whisper. This member of the group is holding two cats. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Okay …yes …I believe so.”

“Do you like the mural on your building? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Stanford gave us all his art. But he gave explicit instructions that you should have the book, “Washing Cars”. You do know that he told you about everything. You must understand. Stanford only spoke ---absolute truth, Pet Guy. He was nothing but genuine. We thank you for being his friend.” One of the members stood up and handed Pet Guy, “Washing Cars,” Stanford’s book.

She spoke, “We have a love that will eventually pass below the superficial. It takes time. I’m sorry for your loss. The procession is tomorrow. Main Street will be closed all day.” Pet Guy turns away, and walks inside his room, saying his good-byes to the Group of Seven, and was soon asleep.

The next morning, the winds came from a different direction. It brought in, which until then were hidden, colorful sounds from cats. They came in through and then around the door, through the window, soon all around they were heard, echoing softly in his room. He awoke refreshed.

He walked the few blocks to Main St., but was suddenly …in awe?! On one of the biggest buildings in the city, a mural of the two of them hugging, had been freshly painted. All down Main St. was Stanford’s art. Groups of people were just standing, staring, all down Main St., seemingly unable to move, so inspired by Stanford’s art.

But once he was seen the procession would begin. Quickly six cats surrounded Pet Guy. Three were on his left side and three were on his right. Then pall-bearers came holding Stanford and stopped. Their gesture was understood and Pet Guy picked up Stanford, wrapped in a blanket. The procession was officially underway. He participated in the procession until the night.

At the end of Main St. he gave Stanford to a member of, The Group of Seven: The Cat People. He now understood.

That night, after Stanford’s funeral, Pet Guy sat with his memory of Stanford, terribly sad, but not destroyed, reading his book, trying to remember every word he chose. But ...

Good-bye, and don’t forget to feed your cat,

The End

Still They Rage

The sun set, but still he slept. Then several more hours of darkness passed, and he was still asleep. But …suddenly he jumped out of bed as a memory struck. His mouth was forming his thoughts as his eyes opened. It came with ‘a blurt’ as consciousness was restored, “The other night I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.” He finally said.

Well, I think you should take a look for yourself. He did indeed have a tough night, huh (photo above)? He obviously took a hard punch to the abdominal region. Can you see the effect? He’s going to have to live with his guts in his spine, “For at least a little while,” the doctor said. Because … They were going at it, the screams echoed across all our provinces’. But later he told me, “As you see, come on, look at me, do you see me smiling, well, I believe I’m taking it well.”

Nonetheless, in fragments he told me about the earlier nights happenings, “Then the set up with the jab,” he said in a crouch, and, “only to follow with the over-hand right. Just look at my eye, would you? Okay …My head snapped, it jerked from the punch. I took several steps back. I’ve gone 50 and 18 without ever laying down on the boxing canvas for anybody. Did you hear me? Never!” He stopped right there. He stopped at, “Never.” Can you believe it? What was I to do? But to stare in fascination at him ---was all I could do.

As he struggled with his pain, my eyes followed his every move. He put his robe on, and pulled out a smoke. He turned, but grabbed his gut. “Hey buddy, can you grab that whiskey from under the bed. I’ve thrown my other pain medications away.” He caught the whiskey bottle under his chin, and poured himself some whiskey in a shot glass, without spilling a drop. And, he did this in a beveled glass for cat paws to grab and hold. In fascination I watched him do this three times, without a word being spoken between the two of us. I waited. Then, longer …
“On days like this … (the interruption) …

“Did you get knocked out?” I couldn’t help myself, I said it. I had to know. He ignored the question, he continued, “On days like this, no, it’ll be alright. No, on days like this I like to share a story with my friends.”

“Please,” I said. I think I said, “Please,” a little nervously. Anyway:

“It happened that one day as I was training. I ran further than I had ever before. It was in the middle of the day, but I saw all these colors. It was amazing. The tree leaves on my path were beyond green ---suddenly. But then the wind came from the west and all the trees on my path began to dance.

In the distance I heard; “Aqui, Aqui, si, si.” I increased my pace to see what the excitement was about. I saw two Spaniard boys half-naked kicking a soccer ball against a concrete wall. I stopped running. I felt forced to stop. And for a moment, visibly hidden, I watched the boys play with the soccer ball. Sometimes the soccer ball would get past their legs and roll out into the street. Undaunted they’d run out into traffic to retrieve the ball and cars would miss them by inches, as if rehearsed, as if a choreographer was standing by. It was very exciting.

Then: “Bueno, bueno.” Soon they were kicking the ball without letting the ball touching the ground. Back and forth the ball went. Faster and faster their legs kicked the soccer ball. It didn’t touch the ground. What I meant to say, what I mean to say, they wouldn’t let the ball touch the ground: No way!

But it was much more, more variables, for instance, how about the soccer ball? Of course the soccer ball wanted to move in a different direction ...all its own. And it did. The beautiful dance would be moved someplace else. The ball hit a concrete block not quite aligned correctly, and the ball took a right, slowly at first, then it gained momentum!”

“What did you do?”

“I ran after the ball.”

“You ran after the ball?”

“Yes, of course. Why, wouldn’t you? No, forget that:

So the soccer ball seemed to be taunting us. It moved faster and faster, it wanted to play too. Snap your fingers, that quick, a step now; and side by side we ran together, me and the two boys. Right then …rhymed, it was perfect. We were chasing after the soccer ball as it rolled.

But, big swerving momentum shifts occurred. Then it was dangerous, I think it’s difficult to run and laugh at the same time? I don’t know, but the running was half-hazard. Yes, we had to hold our stomach from the pleasure of it all.

Since that day running with the young boys, I’ve tried to keep that look the boys had. Their eyes were complete fascination. They were that! The boy’s didn’t even have to try. That look is now inside me forever. Even if a person does or doesn’t get knocked out, how can you get that look out?

The End