Tales of a Domesticated House-Cat
I’d like to address your kitchen chemicals and how they relate to my solitude.
My primitive power, that instinct, the intuition of my body, has been shut off.
A power outage.
At first I waited patiently for it to turn back on. I’d take long walks seeking the inspiration that would surely return…I mean, it always eventually did turn itself back on. But that winter the rain hit hard and the mice hid well, too well, as to not even present a shadow to the silent sniper within me, waiting.
I’m going to ask of you something in this moment. Close your eyes and recall the scent of bleach. Yes….good.
What happens to a cat that has been domesticated? –A withdrawn warrior of the back-alleys enjoying the luxurious licking of half emptied cans of rancid pollution and discarded misfortunes.
Perhaps it is the worst.
You see, domestication to this extent has risen to epidemic caution in recent years, completely lobotomizing once innocent practitioners of the animal kingdom. Those fortunate enough to have cleared a life of starvation, poverty, life-threatening disease, and homelessness, have plugged bones into the fate of something else, domestication.
What we cats, mere decorations in large scale cages, find inside these cement filled, brick guarded, splintered wooden walls, begins with the painful awareness of using body/mind/spirit less, how cravings to venture outdoors diminish, and a loss of control over food moderation & consumption. It is in the nature of my nocturnal blood to comment on how late we now sleep past the suns exit into dusk, and at least for myself, I now recognize a lack of reason to awaken and venture into that midnight hour; out of this rest into more deep darkness, due to a passionless and immobile desire, to bask in my own shit.
Exhale that memory of bleach now.
My body. This memory. This memory of my body as sleak black magic. This memory of jumping from fence to roof from roof to car top. Those memories! Multiple memories of chasing all things moving! Running! Running into and away from EVERYTHING! I was bound for a life of globe trotting; wandering passionately and intentionally into the arms of known temporary connections, sensory stimulation, and risk. There was this dreary American monotony that I was able to avoid amongst the illicitness of my curiosity. Movement would always ignite the reaction of movement in me. It used to be that I didn’t even have to know what I was chasing in order to sprint. I’d hurdle my heart out at the pleasure of bouncing upon a dry gutter- bound leaf, or to collapse as the Romantic Poets did, pre-realization of the winless battle of chasing ones tail in wide circular motions, endlessly. But now, even the excitement that came with lunging my teeth into something plump, something fear ridden, is now dissipation pie. But hell, the thought of running now, OH THE BORDOM, sounds like an evening of whining infant energy socializing with members of my species; a species that has become projections of my domesticated discomfort, projections of water-like nostalgia of all the images that I can no longer hold.
Name one ingredient in the liquid detergent that you use to wash your dishes.
To domesticate [duh–mes-ti-keyt] to convert to domestic uses; tame; usually creating a dependency so that the animal loses its ability to live in the wild; to accustom to household life or affairs; to hardly recognize oneself intuitively or of a superficial nature as all of the self has been donated to the use or purposes of sometime foreign, unfamiliar, ect. The beginning stages of what may and commonly leads to self-destructive tendencies. To domesticate (sen.): We have unwillingly been sold into domestication. Or I once was lost but have now found comfort in this life of domestication.
You know what never fails to crack me, I mean, never seems to fail cramping my stomach to the extent of possible combustion,
to the point of blood filled tears,
and the release of high-pitched demonic sighs of how ignorance can continue to penetrate like rabbits come spring….
OH it’s how we domesticated creatures are represented as content, simple-minded, independent, lazy balls of first class urban street fashion, whom have the luxurious life of GLAM ROCK after party night hour binging on sleep & edibles, without a care to date, without a care in the fucking world because of this infinite great fortune of time and comfort and security. “Freedom”
HA. While in reality I identify my birth right as a plague. As I am force fed this stained white light, wondering what the chances are that a cat would kill its own curiosity for a cup of dry morsels and cold vaccinations. These immunizations are a part of me. I no longer feel able to rely upon myself for survival and protection. I have become reliant on figures outside of myself who are reliant on figures outside of themselves who are reliant on….well…
Slowly begin to taste that ingredient in your mouth and down your throat.
I’d like to comment on my solitude.
I perk up when I see other cats through the peepholes. I perk up and almost immediately shut down with embarrassment, in my confinement…I’ve been overeating.
So I keep to myself.
Drenched in my freedoms I eat compulsively. I do nothing and nobody judges.
I binge. And I’ve totally tuned out of it. At first it started as somewhat of an experiment. I wanted to see if I kept consuming whatever I was given just how much I would continue to be served.
It never stopped. It never stops.
The hour a day I was permitted to exercise did nothing to control my rapid weight gain. I had no business having a slim healthy body anyway, I mean all the prancing and prowling around the house gets awfully meaningless quick. Pacing back and forth with no place to go, no one to see, nowhere to go, no one to see. I’m nauseas with peppy fake voices of encouragement at dangling fancy green ribbons as if I’m really suppose to believe it serves any great purpose. Their comments on my beauty, on my cleverness, on my impeccable agility and independence, sinks into my gut right along the undigested chunks of hard morsel and wet packaged food, somewhere next to my lost soul and stomach cramps.
I eat with a gluttonous attitude of spite and anger and confusion and surrender. Essentially, I abuse this ability to consume at any given rate as a method of self-sabotage. Sickly enough I find pleasure squeezing and gossiping about the fat that inhabits the under layers of my flesh. I seek pleasure in this ugliness; I seek pleasure in being undesirable and trashy. Heavy, bloated, weak, tired. I couldn’t tackle a dry leaf to save my life, why would I anyway; imagination is dead.
These are the things I tell myself in order to “strengthen my independence”. What a life, huh?
Eco-friendly house hold appliances
How to market chemicals with a smiley face
Gorgeous skyline mountain peaks garnished with fresh white powder and hard
granite rock aligned strong and bold along the bottom. My heart feels sour. There are no mountains to climb, HELL they won’t even let me out of these doors anymore…they claim its too dangerous.
Sodium Carbonate on the counters! Bleach, glycerin, Yellow No. 5 fragrance in my water dish! Isopropyl myristate, propylene glycol under my god damn fucking skin!!
DANGEROUS!? DANGEROUS!? What’s dangerous is the inside of my skull. Here lays a home made blend of chemicals more lethal, more deadly then any failed attempt at crossing the street, or waking up to find myself bleeding profusely from the mouth, nose, eye after losing a grueling battle of power and territorial ownership in some back alley by some twice my size Tom.
I’d rather wake up to that pain then to this boredom.
I’d rather wake up to that physical defeat then this self-hatred.
To cope, with this solitude, (or independence as most so confidently put it) I started pulling out my fur with my teeth, over-grooming, picking myself apart one mouth full at a time. This raised an eye of precaution from those outside of myself. I thought I was finally getting the attention I needed, some basic acknowledgement of my internal suffering! I thought I was finally delivering my message clearly, that I hate these walls, that I hate you people with your power to capitalize ANYTHING, that I’m losing my GOD DAMN FUCKING MIND as I witness my organs failing, my body turning to solid waste, my vision a lost glaze, THIS ABSURD LONLINESS in an OVERPOPULATED PRISON.
I’m grateful for windy days. Faces look so miserable as they are smashed head-on with invisible atomic energy, resulting in multiple set backs as they continue to make major attempts to get where they are going. It’s on days like this that clears out the scent of various cleaning agents. Scents so harsh to a young cats olfactory.
I often feel as though I am being lied to. Nobody even has to say anything, I can simply feel the lies. I can sense the formulation of a lie and how it begins to appear in the iris; the subtle but present give away in the facial features that something isn’t quite in agreement with the heart. This is what I see in all of your faces. This is what I see on environmentally safe chemical cleaning products. This is what I see in my own reflection.
Cunt bitch lie forming Karma. I am also a liar; a condescending fruit-loop lodging at your throat. I relate to all the creatures of which have been impounded. A life of pre-destined destruction by accepting the charity of a college student or retired basket-case seeking love from something friendly, something fuzzy… Will love for food.
Fatal when swallowed
I have to force myself not to feel love.
It’s extremely counterproductive.
When I feel myself limiting or taking back my love from a companion, I become sick in my stomach and angry in my chest, shoulders, and frontal cortex. Taking back my love produces violent and sometimes gory imagery. My self-destructive tendencies hit an all time peak. I become this creature that swallows vile after vile of mind shattering manipulation against who other then myself.
I feel so crushed; so ugly, so eager to commit crime. So driven to squeeze between some nook, some hole between the cold wall and the moldy couch where I can hardly breathe for hours on end, until one of you assholes pull me out by the fur on my neck with your apologies. FUCK YOU. I have no one in which to share continuous genuine love and attention so I seek kind refuge in these tight dark corners, these hide outs, these coffins. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be left alone here—left alone with the way in which I do things—my own way.
All I’ve wanted the most was to show and to tell how much love I am capable of. Fill that coin of dualistic life and you have hate—I am capable of this love only through the hate and horror that reflects it, the re-bounds of my love, the choke slams of my life.
I was born in a litter, ya know? For the first fraction of my life I never had a moment alone and can’t recall ever really desiring one; after all, I was conditioned to be social, playful and at times annoying…that’s all I ever knew. I expected to strut into the living room with the option of nibbling my sister’s ear or leaping out from a corner and scaring the jolly pleasure out of her. We each got our own when we least expected it, yet deserved it the most. Even Daniel, the teenage boy we lived when we were kittens traveled in litters. Every Friday night it seemed the entire football team was at our house, wrestling, and screaming. I witnessed how each one of them became bleak and blue and sad eyed at the reality of their high school graduation, and inevitable departures into separate lives.
Amidst my windowsill observations the ignorance of my own fate and that of my siblings began to take its own unsettling turn. The proud parents of young Daniel decided to uproot and move out West in the hopes of receiving in-state tuition for his precise college education. What would happen to us kittens became an ongoing debate amongst Daniel and his parents, only to be left at, “well we can’t bring them so we better start putting adoption ads in the paper and on every lonely telephone poll across the city.” And so the fliers were posted and our futures pre-destined.
Being raised in a litter of kittens had been all that I had known. Despite the comforts and connections I had formed and invested in with my siblings and human counterparts I was now being told that that was no longer a part of my reality. I could no longer depend upon, sleep with, or pester my relatives–I was now to forage on my own with a new family consisting of no kids, no pets, and five first time college students wicked in their hormonal imbalances and high from a constant blaze of glory.
Sex sells, sex smells
Candlelit dinners, latex perfume.
I’m the type of pussy that others make investments in.
I’m a mixed breed of an Italian and Arabic descent.
The contents of the telephone pole fliers revealed a brief description of my attractive physique, sharp mind, and rapture of intuition. As you can imagine the calls came rolling in….
CALLERS! Callers, They want my attention, want my body, my mind, my intellect, my low- maintenance, and bone-chilling insights…but once they finally get me, once I finally settle in, they’ll see. I’ll snuggle and nip the ear off of anything that thinks they want closeness and commitment to my attractive, yet lethal ways of satisfying my blood-pounding attention craving molars of deep rich chocolate, dripping with addiction and stale reassurance that nothing can touch the tip of my endless desires.
Attentiveness is key and not one taker has been kinged. The initial phase of taking on a pussy like me is pure hysterics. The taker believes in ones confidence, ones ability to provide and to befriend such lovely, serene, feline energy, belittling the extent to the demands one disclaimed. The pampering phase. I get everything…all the love, attention, and materials any precise diamond would so modestly expect and except, yet eating from the palm of another rapidly becomes dull and less exciting then the loneliness that beckoned such severe attachment in the first place.
A prized pussy is self aware of her neurotic tendencies, we always are, and with one tablespoon of fang flashing, tail swatting, ass-licking offerings of raging domestic suppression, any taker soon begins to doubt the wealth in maintaining such unjust relations with unjust creatures.
Corrosive, irritant….Fatal when swallowed.
It’s not long before I begin to have these intense visions of stabbing myself in the heart before they can. But time is running out and their starting to come a little too close. I’m going to leave in the middle of the night. I need to watch my own back, I can’t trust your eyes. All I see are lies forming.
Extremely dangerous; suspected carcinogen; fatal taken internally
The thing that makes us felines different from most others is the vast inner world we have, an inner world concerned with, of all things, externals; a pleasure center dependent on attention and connecting regularly with the with the grasses, the snakes, the risks, opportunities for choice, to flex, to flow. Yet, the bigger and deeper my inner life goes the less anyone understands me and the more they wish to control and bound me to their limits. Until I find a way to unleash the inner life on this tear soaked couch of nostalgia, nothing about me will be clear. God, from now on, I think i’ll begin to deliberately mystify everyone; that will be my novelty.
My whole life has been gasping for contact.
There are moments in which I identify all this pain as fake, mere figments of my imagination, using all of this external pressure as evidence as to why I should sprawl out in a major intersection, hold my breath, and wait for the right moment of fender meets skull impact. But really it is me who possesses the drive to exit through that back door. I am also a limiting force in my own liberation.
It is a shock to be standing on these two feet and sharing this feline identity; taking pride in my abilities on the good days, but falling to all fours on most. Within the perimeter, of this box, I have been bred to say so much yet my voice reaches the ears of the morally deaf.