She was falling out with relatives, again. Another full moon, subsiding. A tide of unanswerable and unacceptable emails foamed back into the great NSA-tapped archive of global communications. She was in the third person. Otherwise, writing about her life would be next to impossible. Today. She held her dishevelled head in her hands. Only 3 am. Just freshly pressed, hung up and wrung out already. Gravity wrestled the entire nebula to the ground. She would take a torch to the whole neurosis. Then douse it with a bell jar. Sylvia Plath style. Then drown it in a tub.
I am involved in a turning point. 6 am. Turning like turnstiles, in the deafening silence of some graveyard shift subway. Something is happening! First person put third on a shelf. I paid my fucking dues, by dawn. The nightmares chased me around for a while, ya, from within. The tv flashed its many screens like S.O.S. , tried for my attention but failed. I would not have it. Sleep. TV.
The rain is imminent, outside these walls. When I woke, I held my head in my hands for a while. I was feeling the pain. Another falling out, you know. But then something happened. One of the cats wanted to play fetch. Kept bringing me a first draft I had crumpled up the day before, into a paper ball. I wanted nothing of it, at first. The cat left my first draft just behind my laptop screen. I wasn’t even aware at first. And then I was. I was aware. Third person shoved off, for first.
I paid my dues and thought my way through the turnstiles. I just had to think real hard, my head in my hands. Then stop. Then click click – click click – click click. The sound of change cycling through the metal reservoir. The digital numbers flipping on a backlit screen the size of a cell phone template. Like I won the fucking lottery. That’s when I stopped thinking. The color was a vivd kinda green. Seawater. Fluorescent. There was no-one around. Just me and my cats. Imminent rain, and our turning point.
I grabbed the ball and threw it! Left the laptop behind. Threw my first draft all around the place. And my cats became dogs. Just me and my dogs! They were coveting my awful first draft, I had balled up and thrown in the trash yesterday. They were growling! And I had named my cat Pitbull. Yes, I named my cat Pitbull. Many full moons ago, about five. We were all growling together. Me and Mouse and Pitbull. We were turning and growling. And yes, I named my cat Mouse.
It was only 6am, and I had full on access to change in my life. Full on frontal change, from worse to better! Thanks to a crumpled old useless ball of first draft. And a cat named Pitbull. And a cat named Mouse. I need not jump the turnstiles and jump the subway train, no. Not like I used to. In Chicago. In Oakland. In NYC. In Boston. There’s not a city turnstile, I didn’t once jump. Because my essence is punk. Ya. My essence is punk. I have cats like dogs. And it’s gonna rain like them, too. And the moon is gonna wane. Ya. The moon is gonna wane. And I got my first person, bartered back from the third. And i claimed a whole vortex of emotion… I know it sounds absurd. And I love my fucking relatives, ya, I just gotta say. Like a love a good proofreader, and rainbow shoelaces, and the month of May. I don’t care if you’re black, disabled or gay. I will love you if your white as the sheets in a bleach bath. I will love you if your head is flushed red, full of wrath. I will love all the haters I hope will just go away. Even the ones inside my head. I will love them. Today.
by Katya, 09/13