Thursday, November 19, 2009


the 'star' is the bird in gem's eye
called them gem because of the eyes
small inside the head eyed cats
rackurrrrrsss~ gem

3/5ths smaller cats than usual, except Gem
like a sleek special Panther

it's like a holy night in Guatemala
when the gemcat is there
like a storm stewer that goes in reverse
like a dream of a religion
a strange catlike idea 

With the cat tail of a hurricane saturating the 401 (and my chief context being awaiting arrival of a wonderful friend via that highway, I find myself with the time to wonder about my friendship with these fine feral cats of Downsview once again, as I am entirely entirely in a mode of waiting, gliding, and focusing all luck, intuitive and teleginetic, focus, I think of the brilliance of the cat colonies, the commitment to coming through in all moments is complete, always in beam, always exemplar. Others may, I never tire of seeing their prints in winter, days after storms, watching their relationships with each other, contemplating their territories and their histories, and trying to explain it to my mother, how instead of travel and theatre, museums and galleries, concerts, trips to Europe, or even more practical quests, if I have the time, I like to visit feral cats in the light industrial wasteland, and try to befriend them with gifts and all the sorts of friendly utterances that downtown most cats will recognize as cat conscious voice, and to this day, never, not one feral has cared back. Not even gem.

So it is still largely humans I look to for consciousness and meaning.

But think of it: the World Symphony Orchestra playing Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony magically entering into a finish! Joy, amazement and at intermission, in the lobby with our kale curry salmon wraps, sun dried tangerines, and gin & tonics, I’d be explaining again about not so much how the feral cats are fascinating in their greater totality and meaning, but are fascinating in the absolute immediate of daily life!

Ordinariness is one of the hidden wonders of existence. Every few days or week and a half, I’ll be walking along and computing away and realize, yes, it is a completely ordinary day, there really is nothing about this set of hours, there isn’t preoccupation, this is what my life was/is like presently, “shipping yards” and “truck docks” and “hopping fences” rare and blessed moments unspoken for in time. I feel like these moments of ordinariness are my greatest accomplishments. And even though it stresses the always en garde alert ferals, they somehow  give lessons to it, hyperexpressive eyes blazing away, unremittantly present to the real day. And suddenly they begin to sing, welcome welcome, happy birthday, happy birthday, welcome welcome, happy birthday, welcome welcome, happy birthday, in their never before heard voices, the epileggo to Schubert’s long broaching immanence.

1 comment:

  1. Wanting Schroedinger's Cat to be decisively more on this side of the equation between life and death, I've happily posted one of many of John Barlow's treatments of his beloved feral cats of Downsview. A precedent of sorts: the first time a single author has been posted on two successive postings of Schroedinger's Cat. Enjoy. jr