we were at the shelter looking at cats and they were just walking around like wind up toys about a large floor, random particles of feline existence. i was given one in a basket. it was a black cube of fur, staring at me with two large eyes, holding on to its life with the claws, not wanting to come out.
i shook the basket a bit, flipped it over and the cat fell out onto the floor, and onto its back, and it bounced a couple of times until it came to a stop, somewhere between the other cats.
i picked it up and it began to become a different kind of cat this time a bone china one, glossy and white and with an ever growing amount of crackle. (Is this the word for the thin breaks in the glaze?)
The color of the clay it seemed was dark red and it showed a bit between the edges of the otherwise completely reflective surface of the animal.
little claws were holding on to me now, very strongly, it was puncturing my skin around my stomach, staring at me, not letting go, ever changing shape and amount of fur on it.
i think this was when i woke up.
a man in the subway raced me to get to a seat. he almost knocked himself out doing that.
he then sat there, the entire half hour, with his legs spread, his arms crossed and his lower lip getting dry from all the exposure to air. he was rather angry with me, i guess. so sad for him. it was just monday morning.
a lecture at the MoMA at lunch time turned out to be a very interesting piece of new york, the lecturer a bit upset about me looking at my watch, ten minutes fast again, she stopped the lecture to point out that she could not concentrate with that noise going on.
it was a spectacular weekend.
and the more i think about it the better it gets.
maybe it would be a good idea to get a coffee now.
i like that the cat in my dream could change so many aspects about itself and still, at all times, remain a cat. i will need to think about that a bit more.
furry images, though my stomach is hurting a bit from the wrong things i have eaten today.
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This page contains a single entry by Witold published on October 24, 2005 2:56 PM.
The best omelette yet. (...it is okay that the title of this entry only makes sense, or at least a tiny bit, at the very end of the entry, as it is a very short entry anyway, not disclosing much, just a here and there and then some. So there, no here.) was the previous entry in this blog.
The poorest man's drug. is the next entry in this blog.
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Witold, my english is not perfect. I need to read your text once, twice, three times to understand it properly. And the more I read it, the better it becomes.
You are a special artist. A very sensitive one.