Moth drowning in the shower. Poor fluttering little guy. Even if his whole life flashed before his eyes, it’s only gonna be like 24 hours or so, right? ‘Flew up against this invisible wall. And again. And again. Changed course & met the Sun in person, hanging from a wire from the ceiling. Ate some wool.’
Tag: home life
-
apple a day
Saturday night, home with the one I love. We cycled over to the Korean grocers’ in the freezing cold mist to get ingredients and I made soto ayam, my favourite Javanese chicken soup from childhood. He is nutting something out for himself on the guitar. I read him something I had written earlier, while he was shredding the chicken. Then we lay down for a while in silence and after a long time I said, want to hear the song I wrote on my phone the other day? I can’t remember how it goes. And he listened to it and then said, Cathoel just drop the ‘& the New Government’ and publish your songs as Cathoel. I said, but why? It’s my favourite band name of all time! And so then he told me why, mentioning some features of what he hears in my voice that made me curl my toes with delight.
The song, I tell him, reading off the tiny screen, is called In the Human Senses of the Word. He closes his eyes. Outside the window it is silent and completely dark. I can see a few lights on in a few other houses. What’s your day like right now? Catch me up.
-
meat time
I love how the cat comes and sits, not next to the fridge, just sort of within range… letting me know with infinite courtesy that, you know, no hurry or anything, but some people might say it’s high time for Meat Time. “Meat Time!” I say, finally noticing her where she folds like a furred god, immaculately footed. Her tail is wrapped around her legs, she is not getting in anybody else’s way, she doesn’t say a word – and not only because she has no words and little use for words, it’s because she is being polite. If I walk between her and the magic fridge, where, for all I know she knows, the meat actually grows, ready carved into fresh nibble-sized bleeding chunks, she almost falls over herself skipping to reach me – she does a little hop, like a twist, her backside and haunches still sitting on the ground while her eager front feet have set off in the opposite direction. She reminds me of comics in old movies who say, “They went… thaddaway!” pointing two fingers in two directions. I let the chunks of flesh fall into her bowl. I’ve given up moving the old hair elastic that is her beloved and her prey, which every day ends up dropped into her empty dish. I hadn’t given up wondering why she would drag it over there once she’s done chasing and torturing the poor thing, then one day it dawned on me: oh. This is her eating place, where she would drag the corpse of her intended supper if she weren’t a soft little domestic possum-murderer. That worn elastic is her prey.