where's shiny?

ravaging the carcass

Nemesis! She's been hanging around endearing herself for too long. I'm glad she's gone. I'm more glad I got a few good hisses in. The blonde girl (the muscles of the organization) who stops by now and again carted her away. Hopefully to the gallows. Christ, what a punk.

But this "Kitty" isn't even the worst! Now we've got this punk llama thinkin' it owns the second floor. Let's see him survive floor three. Motherfucker.

shedding season is over

My coat is rebuilding. Which is good. I need it right now. Shiny hasn't been seen for days and curly disappears for hours on end, and then only to pop in for a quick nap. Worse yet, it appears some hobos haven taken up the common room like its some S&P boxcar.

I just cannot shake the feeling that they're slipping away. Reeks of betrayal, it does. A good swan friend of mine -- a trumpeter, she always crowed loud -- helped me realize the contentious nature of the mother/daughter relationship (and clearly misunderstandings are only magnified inter-specially) but my whole understanding of stable domestic structure is upheaved. God truly is dead.

Although, curly is still definately in and out. And I'm pretty sure shiny's coming back soon. In fact, I expect her anyday now.

We have finally conquered the heat!!! -- By which of course I mean, its become unseasonably cold. Thank the tigers. Anyways,




I must say, its satisfying to nuzzle my nose in a blanket again. Curl up and save my warmth for protection. All these comings and goings and prolonged absences really have me a bit wary. Where do they go!!?!

Anyways, to get to the bottom of this, I've been doing a lot of meditation, and honing my disapparating. I just know it'll come in handy at some point! Say today, I tried to get into the rooms down stairs and did manage my way thru, well not thru, but to the other side of the doors. There was all sorts of stuff down there! And yet, no signs of inhabitance. Soon, they should come. Soon this house will hear life, delicious non heteronormative life.

Hello All,

I apologize as its been some time since my last post. You must forgive me for I've recently found employment with an exterminist. And with such pressing responsibilities as ridding roofs of squirrels and acting as company spokes/rep/model, I haven't had time to comb out my fur let alone indulge in the narcissism of the blog. No, the higher calling of promotions brays for my first-coming. Though, why they would choose a mascot separated by a mere three degrees from that which you're trying to get people to pay you to kill (some inadavertant play to modern man's self-loathing I'm sure) I don't understand. But curly frequently raves about the illogic intrinsic to marketing -- "art funded to promote consumerism! non-sensical mental virus! windorphins!!!" -- so certainly they must be doing something right.

But now that I'm earning my keep, using all my powers as a money-holder, I'm becoming increasingly aware of my own state of disenfranchisement. I mean, just the other day I was chatting with the mascot of Deli Supermarket, Bodega Cat, talking about how we should rise up, you know, fight the power, rah rah rah, and you will not believe how she responded.

"Sssss, silly, we cats can't vote, to even threaten to withdraw our bodies from their societal functions, much to dangerous. Why its homeland security you're dealing with then... Just like the airport screening personnel. Why you heard didn't you, the new homeland security bill, you know to implement all the 9/11 commision recommendations? Well, its a great bi-partisan success, quite rare, and you know it almost didn't happen, it did. Why, the President, Master Bush, would have had to veto had they left in the right for airport screening personnel to unionize. He threatened it and he woulda. Why, some folks, some folks is just too important. Society need 'em where they is, and where they is is where they stay."

Anyways, I'm becoming quite political. I read the news. Why just the other day I read an article about a group of royals from Saudi Arabia (which I can only imagine is somewhere just past RedHook) flying back to London after a full day of shopping in Milan. Well, they were just taking a quick hop skip on BritishAir when their women were expected (EXPECTED!!) to just sit next to men. And when they simply refused, (as if its an imposition to rearrange other people for the greater good of a gender segregated world) they were kicked off the plane. Well, I'm glad
they held the plane up for four hours until it was finally forced to return to the gate. Its about time someone stood up for their rights, society need 'em where they is, and where they is is where they stay.

Those Saudis'll save the world if we let 'em. Which we're gonna. Sell them $20billion worth of weapons, that is.

For once I yell Reid and its not to some strange Pole

Ahh the langour, I'm practically bald with the summer heat. New outsides are being explored, I even visited the squirrel den -- an extreme inside -- but I don't know... its just all so unglamorous.

Another furry creature came bringing nothing but good things. Air conditioning, radiator pools, bikes, good will and wisdom. Alls I can thinkuh is... A trickster LOVES a crafter.

This heat here is cleansing and liberating.

Schrodinger's cat, out of the box

I have to explain to you about time. Sure, you think you have a handle on it. Typical human arrogance. I know the score. Now is the only thing I understand. You're caught up in this linear progression of past and future and all that jive. I just yawn langorously from the comfort of my eternal present. It has its downside. What doesn't, really? When the kibble is running low, it's always been low, darling. I don't remember anything but the hunger. On the other hand, when I've throttled the life out of rainbow mouse or am happily curled up right below your windpipe, that lasts forever, sugar. Heaven. I live in extremity, the places you folks only go when you've been driven there. Don't ask me why we yowl. Don't ask me why we purr. You know the answer to that. It's because the world has never been anything but pain. Or--wait--is it possible that life has ever, could ever be better than this? I am felix domesticus and I am highly evolved. You traded away your fur. You traded away your time. For what? Opposable thumbs. Don't talk to me about the forgetting of wisdom.

Curly has been gone forever. Meanwhile, Shiny disturbs my rest as often as she can, running this strange pole over the floor, its whiskers gathering up all manner of interesting little beads and the hair I've spent so much time salting all over my territory. Instead of saving the fruit of my labors, she tosses it all into a plastic bag, which she carries into that mysterious other world outside the window. While she performs this highly discombobulating activity, her computer box issues the most strenuous sounds of woe. Shiny calls these sounds "glam rock" and often caterwauls along in unison, like the most vulgar of my cousins. I am often disconcerted by her ability to match the sounds coming out of her mouth exactly to the shouts of pain coming from the speakers. It's as if she can anticipate their anguished cries for help. I find this unnerving.

But it doesn't stop me from prowling around peaceably in outside room while she sits on the balcony. Often, she'll examine the corpse of a bird that seems to be made up of many invidividual leaves of ivory colored tissue with small black figures on them. I didn't think a bird would look like that up close--I've only ever seen them flapping around in the negative space beyond Curly's bed. I thought it would be a lot more--you know--bloody and full of shiny dark sacs and twists of intestine and stuff. Mmmm. I'm starving just thinking about it. But maybe these bird corpses are old and dry and that's why she flips through them so meticulously, looking for something still edible? That makes sense, I guess. She's no mighty huntress, I'll say that for sure. Not too bright, neither. She thinks can stop my campaign to conquer the lands beyond outside room with a mere painted board. I'll outwit her yet. You, my people, have called me. And I shall come to you and cover you in my golden glory (which some call "fur").

outside room

I've spotted my parallel self. It happens to exist on the second floor of 536 Hancock St. Once curly mentioned a young middle eastern man who works at Supermarket lives at there too. I bet there's a pretty good chance I could trick her into responding more affectionately to his invites and doing some reconaisance work for me. OliveBeta never goes onto her outside room though. Poo.

The shadow of John Hinckley Jr., I have the high ground. It occurs to me Bed-Stuy is incredibly defensible. I mean, I'm just saying, that, theoretically, were the revolution to begin tomorrow, the Battle of Bed-Stuy would belong to the insurgents. Now, I'm not saying we should all rise up against the government and fight the Battle for Baghdad in Brooklyn, I'm just saying, America is for the freedom fighters, not the fucking pirates who hijacked it. They don't have to fight for shit, just need to sign a fucking receipt.


Attica! Attica! Attica!!

complete recline

I've never been one to mince words when it comes to playthings. But when it comes to playthings, outside is the best. One of our windows looks onto an extended ledge, and the girls and I have taken to enjoying the breeze of Bed-Stuy bloom. Yet there is something forbidden about this ledge beyond my glass gate. I mean, the very fact that its beyond a fucking glass gate! Sets me on edge. And whenever we explore I'm never really free. I can enjoy the wind coursing through my follicles; I can feel the liberty, but these perceptions offer only a virtual reality. The moment I explore the depths at the bottom of the slatted hill they pounce. I step outside of their little "allowances" -- what they tell me I can do, who they tell me I can be -- and zzhtzhtzzz behavioral correction. Their power is really quite autocratic. A bit too 19th century for my tastes.

But playthings. Outside. Yes, the natural habitat. There are other juttings into the outside world, but not too many people sitting on them. Mostly you can see them floating behind the spyholes, in their apartments stacked up like drawers.

This is the only place I'm alive. They brought in some endlessly whirring fans, but inside all I can do is melt, my molecules expanding and repelling with heat energy. I cannot be concerned with my more lofty worries of person and nation, my only goal can be: have no one part touch another.

Have A Nice Day

I can hear a woman's lilting voice from round the corner. The excuse of cold is no longer applicable. And yet I remain inside, imprisoned by more applicable excuses. Sadness.

However, like a Victorian Lady, I believe the shelter has only helped to maintain my delicacy of feature.





Love. A simple cat can feel so much. I've never seen him, but in pictures. We have corresponded. I just want to smell him.
Perhaps he could lick my head. mmm, that'd be peachy.

where are my cigarettes?!?

Cats Were Not Meant to Be Harnessed

Keeeeee-rist. What did they think they were trying to do harnessing a cat?!? I mean, seriously, what were they trying to accomplish? Don't they know you don't harness a cat. You can trap a cat, but it will never ignore the trap. Tenet #1.

It's one of our more noble traditions.

Their privileges are being revoked. I will never compromise to a nail clipping again.








Anyways.

I've recruited a lieutenant.




He resides in Park Slope and is really driving our outreach.

In other BIG news:

There seems to be a new warmth eminating from beyond command post windows. It has steeled their courage and I'm venturing onto the deck. I've been trying to reach out to the people, but my best efforts to spread the word have been harshly twarted. This vistor they had -- who frequently made loud outbursts and occasionally looked like a rooster -- had the audacity to physically manhandle me when I but leaped to the neighbors windowshelf. He's lucky he still has eyes.


Despite all this however, in many respects I
maintain my position of humble servitude, forever guarding the castle from any manner of intruder. I am the tiger; fuck with me or mine and you will die.

we're all mad here

"I didn't know that Cheshire Cats always grinned; in fact, I didn't know that cats could grin."

"They all can," said the Duchess; "and most of them do."









A grin without a cat, now that I've never seen.

The Battle for Bed-Stuy has turned

A house for the taking! The psychological battle I've been waging for the past 3 months is climaxed. The still is dizzy. A new civility rises, unbounded by the reality of section 8, subsidized housing. The sandpaper removed, I'm almost rendered blind with the lack of gravity.


I've been spying their droppings on the sidewalk; the things that stay behind. For at least the past week. Maybe two. Then sometime Sunday afternoon the house fell quiet. The vibrations of life (a treat for tattered skin, say the vedic monks) absent from all but our garret.

I heard curly and shiny trespassing on the abandoned nest that night.

clp, clp, clp.
"huh, well it has higher ceilings"
clp, clp.
"ugh, but the bathroom's vomitific. Red light on pink tile does not relax the sphincter"
clp, clp, clp, clp, clp, clp
"bigger closets, oh, here's your room, kinda"
"yeah, the floor's are kinda gross"
"yeah, it kind of smells like urine"
click.

That little 'Rican girl. And her sister. They didn't go to school, they were just here. And their mom, with the screechy contralto. They just aren't here.


What remains, a long festering estate. A whole new era.

the cult of personality

I confess I had the opportunity of freedom

I did. Proving my long held assertions of curly and shiny's incompetance, a fortnight past, as they were removing the large bags of bottles and card so long collected in the kitchen I too could have experienced the sandy rough concrete of urbanity on my supple salmon paws. Alas I faltered. And not just out of propriety. Yes, there inevitably would have been a scene -- bumbling, confusement, not my style -- but what lies outside? Why abandon my bourgeious kingdom for the harsh darwinism of a world unchecked by privilege. Though I dmit I do crave society, passionately. The luxury of discussing this tiltering world, it makes my desire to realize these visions of social splendor that conjure in skydreams out the window sharp as a knife of glass. I must speak with the people; we must come to agreements on the machinations of this hallowed world to fully rise above its shortcomings.

Though history is made of leaders, prophets, and messiahs, that is only history. I am what history has crafted. I am now.

the manifesto drops: Spring 2007
the revolution begins: immediately thereafter

I will rise, don't think I won't

I can't even tell you how sick I am of the bullshit. All I want to do it post some photos for the fans and this bullshit free blog won't even recognize my digital rotations. That said, fans, please enjoy some horizontal originals.
















But enough of my hedonism. Or perhaps in honor of my hedonism I raise a complaint. The bitches won't let me play in the snow. I show off my acrobatic capabilities (which are pretty vast) on a regular basis and yet still they refuse to allow me access to the terrace through the window.
What do they honestly think I'm going to do? jump down? immediately be swooped up by one of those large flying cats I see outside? Their snouts do have a menacing downturn -- and seem rather sharp, as if they use it to do their tooth work; combined with their inky down fur, this particular breed of cat is rather unsettling -- but how can those oddly proportioned twats honestly expect me to assume my fated role as prophet of the urban cats if they never give me a chance to mingle with the masses?

Its just frustrating is all.

I am also very clever

I recently mastered the concept of electricity; specific objects seem to be light triggers. Unfortunately the finger dexterity required to operate most of these eludes me. The kitchen light however I am coming to conquer.


Watch it; I'm simply awesome.

I am a British dandy circa 1928. Well, a female performing as a dandy; but still, it is simply my preferred social role.

It is dark and the ennui is overwhelming.

The cupboards are shut, the lights are off, how long do they expect me to sleep? The back and forth loses its sexiness when no ones around to watch. I suppose solitude would have some allure if I weren't already allowed to rule the house, but what is a benevolent dictator without his peons? I can't help ruminating on those dictocratic ideas eminating from the continent.

It seems our fair empire has finally dissolved and who says the fascist's don't have some appealing ideas. Now that Ireland has finally split, I can't help but feel that we could use a bit of stricture. I mean, it seems to have struck a cord in carina Italia, at least that Mussolini chap seems to be doing something. The Battle of Land did put a bit of food on the tables. My guess though, its a flash in the pan; that one chap, Hitler, in the Wiemar, only got 2.6 percent of the vote. Ah, das Vaterland, I just cannot say I envy you. Thank lord for Great Brittania's entrench democratic ideals.

We've already worked through the kinks of repreOh jesus, what is that infernal alarm downstairs!

And of such organic tonality. Couldn't that little 'Rican girl find a better way to beg for attention!

You frontin'?!?

2007 is nigh, I relish the nooks and crannies yet to explore. I think this year I'm really going to get my image out there. Or at least that's what I think curlyhead has up her sleeve. She keeps taking pictures of me; I can only assume she's finally given up on her own laziness and has turned to the second generation to carry the family. I mean, she hasn't the pure bitter of Macaulay Culkin's parents, but if she ever had to talk to Dinah Lohan at a party, they would certainly have at least 15 minutes of good conversation. I can only assume this is her scheme as she incessantly snatches me in her picture machine. I mean, yeah, they're good pictures, but this can't be bought. I'm not going to be dumbed down to an image people think they can understand. I'm just not. But ultimately the only way to defeat the man is to defeat his technology. Take away the instrument of subjugation and we can once again talk reasonably.

Bah! Take that, mothafuckah!

Nah, I love ya.

I am the mighty godess of the hunt, Olive

My arch nemesis pinknylongstringmouse. Ahh, the cad. What would I do without my foil? It has been a long and harried duel, crossing the span of many dark absences. I am slowly wearing away his armor; it is a coarsely woven synthetic fiber. I can do it no harm, my claws merely slip through its porous exoskeleton, a defense perfect to my every pary. I am managing however to slowly pry this away from the flesh of pinknylonstringmouse.

I fear curlyhead will soon take pity and act his nurse. She is always ruining my plans!