Monday, 2 November 2009

Cat Dreeam

One moment ago, I was floating above a yellow turtle sitting in a high grass field. I was drinking clouds. Now I appear to be in the kitchen of a familiar house, its surfaces and tiles echo with songs of my youth and moments and faces. I know this room, was I born here?
The floor glistens with vegetable oil and the shaved collective hair of fourteen-year-old drunks. I can hear my mother speak. I turn, searching for her voice, but cannot see her. Yet her voice remains. She is whispering in my ear words of cats and kittens. I don’t quite understand. ‘I am leaving now’ she tells me, and then that is it, nothing more, except the wind clawing upon the windowpane. I turn and stare at the window, it absorbs me, the glass light and the garden outside. Rainbows and butterflies and Tuesdays smoking cigarettes flash across my eyes. I am broken from this drift, by a piercing screech. Bliss broken, knock on wood, there is a cat, sitting upon the breadboard on the kitchen surface. Suddenly my mother’s words leap in figures, of make sense. All of them, all the words that she ever said to me, flash across my temple. Like a goose buried underground, her words stroke my jelly kidney breast, tis a great sanctuary to know what my mother was saying. That is, until the cat jumps at me and begins to chew with great venom upon my white left arm. It hurts like hell, her teeth pierce into my skin deep, blood grows in arms, like turtles in a small boat, and her claws scratch at my face. I fight back, as I have no choice, and pull at her ears, and head, this does not work, it only hardens her commitment to pain. As a last resort, I gouge her eyes. Instantly she withdraws, and with this climb down, she reveals the cause of her bite. In a tumbler glass behind from were she sprang. Lye the fading, crazy eyed bodies of four or five kittens, maybe five. I think it is five. These bodies are limp and it is apparent they would soon become corpses if I do not act quickly. I strike out for milk, it seems the obvious nurture, and I am also standing beside a refrigerator. Grasping the red top glass milk bottle, I pour some into an empty thimble, which I pull from my pocket (for some unknown reason my pocket is full of them) and thrust its drops into the dying child cat mouths. At first this appears to work, and a sense of rejuvenation stirs in the gums of the kittens, even seeping into the air in the room. My fingers gleam. However this quiet is soon broken when the kittens begin shrinking and reducing in size, until they themselves become smaller than the smallest thimbles. With this all happening, the mother decides it appropriate to leap once more upon my arm with her claws and teeth, and then my face. Until I strike her off with five fingers full of thimbles. She bounces onto the floor, and then leaps back up to the surface. I ready my defences, once more, for another brutal assault, but instead of leaping onto me and scratching cut my face and maybe even my eyes. She simply turns her back on me, and pretends to ignore me. This I find very odd, but instead of dwelling upon this, my attention turns instead to the miniature molecule kittens in the glass tumbler, which has now become a petri dish. I leap to the sink, in search of water, with thoughts of growing seeds and plants and people in my head. I fill a jug of water, and pour it upon the tiny dying kitten sperms. This appears to work and they began to grow again. Their mother though still ignores me. However it is lucky she is, because like some kind of magical bean stalk, the kittens begin to burst upward in size, and as they do so does the container and the water level too. Within a matter of seconds, in a large glass tank, taller than me, or anyone I know, float five or four drowning kittens. At this point, helplessness envelops me, and bleak tears swarm the songs of the room. A dead bird falls from the sky outside and splatters into a tree and loss bites my ear, as the glass on the tank breaks and the harpsichord strikes a rainbow bell. The kitchen is filling with water, and giant kittens, for a moment I think I am drowning too, however, as quickly as it rose, the water level subsides, and I breathe once more. The kittens, without this water bed, begin to shrink also, I begin to grasp desperately for a towel and salvation, and a scream leaps from my mouth, whilst the mother still has her back to this scene, and provides no help. My mother is still absent too. Not even her words illuminate the room or dress my ears.
The kittens are still shrinking and struggling for air, despite the lack of drowning. “What do I do?” I scream.
‘This lack of balance strikes me as odd’ I think out loud, and thoughts of smaller water gather on the shore of my mind and offer clarity and hope. Without hesitation, I fill the milk thistle thimble with water, water squeezed from a rock, and pour it into their thirsting mouths. This seems to work, and they begin to breathe again, some of their eyes start to open, and as this happens, the room suddenly turns yellow and light and feather, the mother turns to look at me, a wry cat smile graces her face, and then the room melts and I am once more in a field, though a different place than the one before, there is a strong air smell of red.

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