The cat shat on the mat…

My cat is peeved with me. When I went back to work, she started peeing and shitting in places other than her litter tray. I dreamed last night that I’d held her upside down by her tail until it came off, and I threw it into the dustbin. This morning she knew, and she pissed on the bathroom floor. She looks at me with hate-filled eyes, she sees through me into my real feelings.
What should I do?

Below the surface

It’s windy, it has been all night. I don’t like wind, it makes me mad below the surface. I live on the coast, the wind swirls around my house many evenings as the air searches for equilibrium.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” goes the wind.

“Stop telling me what to do! Stop your gusting and puffing and huffing! Stop whipping my hair into my mouth!”

Scarlett O’Hara, I want to slap your beautiful whiney face.

Got any chips?

Feel the rhythm, check the ride

I think some normality has floated back into my world, settled on my mind-space like dust. Then, whilst out on an early-morning-walk, I round-the-bend to the home-stretch, and spy my neighbour riding…a…fucking…unicycle. His jerk-lurch movement along the cracked footpath, arms all tug-pull-twist, was hypnotic yet unsettling. Those back-forth arms, spinning legs, the wobble-head; an electrostatic cloth exciting the positive normal-dust particles at the edges of this mind.

Dear Neighbour,

You are not a circus-performer, you are a graphic-designer. Please stop freaking me out.

Cheers,

Me

In that place, you are sweat-wet as you step from a cold shower and have yet to towel-dry your drip-tip of a body. Despite the open spaces and the bigness of everything from fungus to fern to angiosperm, a closed-in feeling threatens. Fecundity all around in overnight time-lapse, with lush, dark leaves. Everything is big, and bursting with life, even in death. Heat, wet-air, lethargy-of-body; makes for fertile minds. New becomes old, covered in mould in less than a blink of a lifetime. Life and death, the inevitability of both, is never more clear than in places like here.

Oh ruby-slippers, (purchased in Chippendale, for the neat sum of $55, from a transvestite called Mary) clickety-click and take me back to the place I love best.