Holding off the white twin cats

Nighttime-late, hunched in blanket & jabbing at keys again…must write to keep self company, pretend there’s a dialogue of sorts. Gregory still out of town. Alone in dark house so many rowed evenings, start to get a bit nutty. Thick stacks of memories fill up head; try to drain them, make way for more palatable thoughts of present, future…is like trying to push congealed molasses through fine-holed cheese grater. Annoying, how still young, yet feel like I’ve lived double. Annoying, how often feel like old woman inside youthful body. If somebody had gall to unzipper and turn me inside-out, would be rewarded with shriveled, bitter old hag. Am assessing. Part of it: quality of my past-time different from past-times of others here. My past-time weighs more, is heavier. Length of time – for example between Viera as little girl and me as little girl – same. But she was here, safe, all along. Like most I know. Yeah, they sent some men. But danger never marched through their streets. Another part of it: large body of water between now-self and then-self creates pocket of additional (and fake, because only conceptual) past-time. Psychology of processing memories influenced by actual physical distance, is bizarre.

Type now frantically, since loneliness and ghostliness are right near, on kitchen counter, crouched and hovering. Chug remainder of gin in glass. They’re waiting for when my finger movements slow to pounce. These white twin cats (loneliness the long-haired, ghostliness the short-)…precursors to death. Problem is, all too familiar with my assailants, but fear of them never diminishes. Unpicky about when they choose to visit me too – can be in midst of crowds (ten, twenty, two hundred people). Whenever they pounce, it begins. Chill of isolation on the inside; external surroundings irrelevant. Fight them off constantly, every way I know how. Loud assertions of hereness. Yes, extravagant wide-brimmed hats, glittering jewels, & vibrant cloth draped over body. Vibrant paint draped over canvas. Make jokes; make people laugh. Make them cross rooms to talk to me. She was made ghost, along with so many others. The demons marvelously good at creating ghosts. Sometimes feel like wisp of smoke only, even amongst friends or cheery downtown day-streets of L.A. Those times I look down and see skin, muscle, and fat have grown diaphanous. Strangers see through to wispy network of nerves and bones. Before disappearance completes, I always get in a scream. Everyone looks my direction & I feel tangible once more. Some damage to reputation has been done. I know some have talked behind back, exchanged gossipy conjectures. But what to do? Only known solution (though temporary) is to drink. Shadowless feelings disappear. Start to feel wonderfully solid, impenetrable to demon forces. And I give the cats the finger.

~ by kingzoko on September 9, 2010.

2 Responses to “Holding off the white twin cats”

  1. The cats as “precursors to death” reminds me of the real-life hospital cat that would sit with someone about to die. He knew instinctively which room to visit.

  2. The cats reminded me of something too.

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