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!!