Cats and Theories
a blog by coticheque
a blog by coticheque

Symmetry breaking

I’m something akin to muck on the wall, the lichen in the corner of a humid room. When God was creating creatures, he rushed and left me broken. He probably looked away when molding my face and body, and this is why all my proportions are distorted. My intestines are malfunctioning like a rotten onion, and my insides hurt. 

My nose stands out, looks like a misshapen piece of clay. My hair lies flat. It covers the contours of my irregular skull and all bumps are visible. My skin is porous, covered by scabs and ulcers that secrete mucus. No matter how much I swipe it away, it always comes back. My legs grow at a weird angle. Which makes me clumsy and awkward when walking, and I often fall. My nails flake off.

When others cast a glance on me, they quickly divert their eyes, for everything in me is bearing this imprint of divine inattention.

The other creatures around me were endowed with tools of communication with their kin. But when I utter words, it’s seems they emerge somewhere on the ocean floor, and when they ascend to the surface, there are just a few bubbles—a barely noticeable ripple on water. 

But I like flowers, roses of Sharon and lillies. I like the colors blue and red. The fragrances of petals and perfumes.

And most of all I like looking at the dark-haired girl. She appears near shepherds’ tents when the dusk falls upon the city. Among the flocks of grazing sheep and goats, among the blooming vineyards, she walks down the hills. She comes there every dusk searching for someone, looking around the cedar and fir trees. Her eyes are blue and grey, dazzling with green like a dove wing. Her necklace is full of jewels. She starts out near the hills, and at the daybreak she’s near the city walls.

My neck hurts from the ambush of thick shrubbery when I sit watching her.

Mirrors are supposed to reflect the symmetric state of the world, but when I look at myself in the water, there’s nothing in that image that resembles what I’m carrying inside of my body.

Poetry exercises

Saint John the Evangelist receiving a Revelation on the island of Patmos

I am John, I sit in my cave.
Dreaming of man whom I’ve never met.
Outside there’s morning, vast space, slow rotation of Earth.
But inside of my cave only rocks and the dirt. 

I envision the kingdoms that ought to fall.
7 churches. Antipa. Balaam. Balak.
While I write my treatise, counting days until end,
Herbs are blooming on fields of Ephesus, Smyrna, Sardis.
And other places that I made up.

When the morning dew falls upon grass,
I shrug from fever and dream of eternal death.
Lake of fire, the locusts, famine. Hot oil is my bath.
These are days – and I count till they pass.
Till life’s gone. So I summon the earthquakes, I dream of conquest:
Many towns, many lands,
But most often I dream about none.

Summer bucket list

We downloaded the first list from Pinterest. A summer bucket list. It was the middle of July. Half of summer already gone so there was no time to waste. Something had to be done, urgently.

The list said. Make paper airplanes. Climb a tree. Feed ducks. 

‘Do drugs’, Tomas noted. 

‘We’ll fit that between paper planes and ducks’

The list was colorful and cheerful with flower doodles on sides and pastel colored fonts. Perhaps better suited for someone closer to 12 than 30, but it was still a good, solid list.

And so we started.

Tomas was my friend. We met on a meet-up he organized. His meet-up was called ‘Let’s talk about death’. We bonded over shared resentment towards life.

Next day, we met outside. It was a Saturday morning, but it could be pretty much any other day. The bucket list said: make paper airplanes.

Not far from the center, there was a large train tunnel junction where teenagers came to smoke weed and leave tasteless graffiti. It took 10 minutes to get to the place. For a few minutes we sat there and watched trains going back and forth from the tunnels below. 

The first task on the list was a serious one to tackle. But I was prepared. With a package from Koh-i-Nor, right there, I had a whole heap of paper in front of me, gridded, delineated by fine lines. Just as God created man out of dust and ashes, it was now time for a man to give shape to formless cellulose. The task was simple: take one sheet, lay it in front, fold in two. Bring upper corners towards the center, press with the fingers. Make two triangles. Fold the paper in half. After a few minutes, I had a fairly solid airplane in my hands.

Another sheet of paper. Three folds, four movements. The Berliner train rushed into the tunnel. Blue livery, 6 cars, a diesel locomotive unit. And as it was half-way gone, that particular minute, Tomas lifted his hand and launched the first paper plane into air.

‘This one is from Al-Qaeda’, he said. ‘Flight 175. United Airlines. Boston to Los Angeles… Didn’t land exactly where intended’.

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