Disclaimer: This topic has no author turning over in his grave. It’s all in fun.
Let’s turn “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” into “If You Give Your Spouse Some Nookie.” I think books should grow with us as we age. I don’t want to keep packing up my beloved classic children’s literature into cardboard boxes to be rummaged through by sticky hands at garage sales for a quarter. Any writer expecting to have their children’s book become a Classic AND sustain a permanent place on our bookshelves needs to offer an intriguing 2nd Half-Of-Life version. We are no longer wearing footie pajamas and reading in our bean-bag chairs. Now we’re donning housecoats (what IS that type of apparel for, anyhow?) and reclining in our Barcalounger chairs.
In that spirit, here are some new “Grown-Up” Title modifications and a few of my recommendation notes to the Author.
Inspired by Haruki Murakami, his cats and maybe my roommate has something to do with all of this.
Well my dear darlings, I don’t know what happened here and why you were not reading my wonderful passage I wrote about E. Nokrošius just a few days ago, I just don’t know and, I guess, I will never know. Even thought I might pretend that I don’t care about things of that nature, but I do care and it hurts me so much that I want to grab another gallon of my favorite Port (of course it has to be my favorite Port, what else?) and have it down to the very last drop right at this moment. Drown that sadness Mr. Plastikoff, drown it!
That’s right, I am definitely going to do that… as soon as I have these seventeen dollars and forty cents to spare, of course, but for now, I guess, I will just have to write something about cats and be sad.
You are probably surprised (or at least I want to think that you are) and are asking yourself, why cats? Well, my darlings, there are a lot of people who love cats, so since they do love them, I have to write about them, right? Oh bullocks, I am just a little too emotional right now and there is a reason why (no, I am not allergic to cats, no, just probably a little verklempt (you really need to read this drunk, it’s more enjoyable this way. There is a reason why I am releasing all this gas on a Friday afternoon) (smiley face)).
It might be that I have inhaled way too much of that smoke which came out from that tea pot my roommate left unattended for a few hours on the stove and almost burned this whole damn house down. Could it be that? Yes, it could be.
The smell of burned hair is still lingering around me like some kind of esoteric mist that you spray around to make all these daemons disappear.
I have a suspicion though that it could be that my roommate might have cooked that poor cat which was looking through our kitchen window the other day, sitting peacefully on the fire escape. It could be that, yes, it could be. This definitely would explain that burned hair smell around the apartment. I hope that this is not the case, because otherwise how am I going to write about the cat today when I have no immediate inspiration looking at me as if I am some kind of head of a smoked fish I ate a week before on Brighton Beach. Could it be that? Yes, it could be.
Now why the duck a cat I want to write to you about today, why? Well, my dear darlings, I do not know. What I do know though is that somehow I need to get your attention, because, you know, I am an attention whore, why would I work in theater otherwise for, a cute smiley face? I don’ think so.
If you would have read my previous entry, you would already know how I feel about this Lithuanian cat Nekrošius, who is more of a tiger, if you ask me. I am still afraid to meet him though. I am scared that he might bite me (pun intended) and I might lose all the motion in my, let’s say, left hand. Brrrr…
This is quite, what’s the word for it, horrific? No, that is not the word I want to use here, but whatever. Nobody wants to lose their left hand to anybody unless… hmmm, the cat is definitely not around anymore. That is a little too suspicious…
So, alright, cats, cats, cats and the theater. What kind of connection do they have? Oh God, I am going to have a really hard time naming this entry. Good luck with not sounding like some crazy Russian who just ate a cat and have forgotten about it the minute he did it.
Yes, I am crazy and who wouldn’t be considering that I have chosen theater as my carrier. Darlings, I get it, working in theater is equals being homeless, yes, I get it, but I am not that crazy yet that I would forget about the cat I just ate. Too many “that’s” on this page, if you ask me. Hmmm, I have a weird feeling in my stomach all of a sudden.
Well alright, I guess I will need to ask my roommate about that last meal he invited me to taste just before that fire broke down. I sense a Shakespearean plot brewing, but moving on…
As with all of my genius entries which have no particular place or need to be on the almighty Internet it happens so that I give you some valid information at the end of my jumbo-mumbo every time I talk. You might not realize that, but I do.
You, most likely, will never need to use that “valid information,” because, you know, even though I like sharing, I share only things that are more convenient to me. Would I be sharing information about how to get rich? I don’t think so. It’s all a secret, even to me, so ride the subways as I do, when, of course, I have those two dallas and fity cents fo a ride. God gracious, that’s almost the prize of two bagels and a coffee…
Sharing is carrying, you must understand that, unless you are a cat, of course, then a smoked fish head sounds more appealing to you than some guys ranting about things that matter only when you are alone, surrounded by the smoke and think that your roommate wants to smoke you alive because you dropped a few water drops on the kitchen counter (true story)… oh wait, no wonder I feel like eating myself. I smell like that smoked fish. Let’s just hope those cats can’t… oh damn you Murakami.
But anyway, what is that “valid information” I want to share with you, my dears? Oh that’s right, books that you should read before you are smoked out from your apartments by your roommates. These books below all have talking cats and are just… well read it and let’s talk about them.
So here they are:
Mikhail Bulgakov’s “Master and Margarita”
Haruki Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” and
Definitely something by Edward Gorey
Here is a little clip to spice things up. We all know how we like some youbty clips do go with those words. I present you Gorey and, of course, his cat:
Oh and to those theater fans, Grotowski used cats as examples for actors to watch, but about it at another time. I need to make sure my neighbor’s cat is still alive.
Have a pussy day, or should I say a weekend, my darlings. And what is this here on my plate? An eyeball? Should I faint for a dramatic effect now or should I leave it for tomorrow? Oh whatever (faints)!
Inspired by Clarissa D. and playwrights’ egos. Dedicated to all writers who couldn’t but still… (farted)
Mr. Dalloquay said he would buy the flowers himself.
He just knew he needed to. No, the problem was not the party he wasn’t eager to invite anybody to. It was something else, something too peculiar to mention here or anywhere for that matter.
Clarence was carrying it for a few weeks now. It was becoming him, undefined and hurtful. Clarence knew that as soon as he does it, nobody will be able to help him… nobody… nothing… nowhere…
The flowers looked too weak and he was just too distracted from himself, from the world that needed him. He wanted to be but he wasn’t. What and how were not the questions anymore. It was the disconnection he saw becoming and engulfing all of him with no mercy, with nothing, but everything…
The undefined emptiness was growing inside him promising him zip, nada, niento… He couldn’t face the people. He knew that it is bigger than him – bigger than anything ever imagined. He knew that he couldn’t do it, even though so many said, don’t be afraid, it will remove your fear of not being there where flowers were not enough to be just that, the flowers. They needed to become something else. He still didn’t know what, but he felt it. He was becoming that emptiness inside him. He was becoming nothing in everything. If he were let it go, the world would know he did it and that was not an option.
He looked at the sky. There was this thing he forgot the name of. Then he looked at the bitch, unleashed but somehow still chained to the anger of its two front legs as if the tail couldn’t wag anymore.
The bitch was there, but how? There was no leash and no tail. Was he wagging the bitch or was it that he knew nobody saw the bitch but him. He was that bitch with all his being, unchained but somehow still there where he just couldn’t…
This face, where has it gone? He picked a pickle or was it a radish? He couldn’t distinguish. He felt the same bitterness as he always did while eating something that he didn’t wanted to. The bitch again or was it that something which spread inside him as some plague promising to destroy that everything he was so fond to keep? Everything is gone now… the bitch too… He still feels that radish or the pickle in his mouth. He couldn’t prevent it from happening. He had nobody to see it, even the bitch… It was gone… The emptiness was growing consuming all of him… the otherness… the intestines… now was the time for his heart…
He thought he made it clear to her, he hated to rewrite. He hated to change anything. It had to be the way it is, with the bitch and the tail wagging away… But it was too late…
It was growing inside him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it longer in. Why did he say that he was okay? He wasn’t. That was that something he hated speaking about, coming from inside him, devouring his being, changing him, making him not the one he really is. He’ll disappear, he knows it, he’ll disappear if he lets it loose.
The scene he wrote was written and somebody foreign wanted to change it. He couldn’t apprehend it why. Was it the bitch or the flowers that still needed to be bought that made him think: I am not and I will not… but it was already too late… three minutes after four too late…
These flowers were too wilted and he was not there anymore. Why did he say he was unhappy? The bitch again was wagging him like there was something he needed to remember. Oh yes, the flowers… He was holding them just a moment ago and now they were gone…
How did she dare to say my writings would improve if only I removed the bitch? No, the bitch is me and it has to wag.
He was disappearing like that bitch he fought so much about. The emptiness inside him was growing through intestines to his heart. His heart is strong but way too soon removed from what he is, from who he was.
He did it yesterday and now he’s disappearing. That day which called him out diminished all that he believed was true. No, he is not going to change it – he will say it to her – I’m not the bitch you want me to be – you go and duck yourself with your three acts of glory – I’ll stay with the bitch – the bitch is me and she needs to wag… He is her now or she is him, he could not feel it anymore.
He farted… No, no, no it is too early for that to happen, no! The fart was gone, but where? He couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t smell it. Where did it go? The flowers! Why do I smell the flowers? The audience is clapping, screaming “Bravo!” He changed the wagging bitch, but why? The emptiness is full again, but is he him or her? He’s on the stage – oh yes, the flowers – you giving them for free? The claps of million palms – the bitch – she’s free – the bitch is free – the empty is full again. He cannot smell it, but why? He knows he released it. More flowers? More applause? The bitch is gone. He’s free.
Slog About All Things Mushy 