Wednesday, December 29, 2004

A puzzle for you all

I saw something bizarre today. In Walgreens.

You won't ever guess what it was. But why not try?

Jack Kerouac's Cat

Okay, other matters now. We stopped at Barnes & Noble yesterday. I bought a Kerouac book, Good Blonde & Others, don't know why, I don't care much for Mr Kerouac. He always seems to throw in a jarring sentence or an annoying phrase in each paragraph. I call this a chimping.

Here's a sample chimping.

"The kid rushes out looking for to go find his gory loss."

Like I say, a chimping.

Anyway, I am all for self-confidence, but Kerouac is so lost in the idea of himself as a great artist that he thinks everything that happens to him is great art. He even imbues his cat with all the qualities of a great artist/hipster poet/beatnik in a toe-curling piece entitled My Cat Tyke.

Reading this piece of course reminded me of my own cat-related issues. My Cat Flea. Soooooo, here today I have began a short story inspire by Jack Chimp-o-rak

My Cat Flea Titus - a short story by Jason Unction

There’s my cat flea Titus, sitting in the Autumn grass eyes widened against the unmarked Memphis sky. Flecks of meaning pass over the face radiating coiled calm, the milky sunrise worn as a shroud, faint pipes freeze mountainous moments.

Titus is not a first flea, Titus is an interloper, a puny interloper, his three pairs of legs arranged hastily in a loose Yoga position, an unlit cigarillo at his hairy side, a miniscule life of Hemingway laying open on the ground. His future, just those short days before completing his life cycle, lies in the cafes of Paris, a beret angled jauntily upon the black thumbprint of a head, a pocketbook of poetry glaring testimony to the heart's harangue. For to go fail in love is as sure a cat flea's fate as any sage what ever threw ink at a page or saw Lou Kapinski throw two innings for the Yankees with his arm dangling from the socket.

Now I see the end, the tiny empty bottle on the floor, a loaded shotgun, both triggers tripped, the thought-meat of Titus, smeared over the bare wall of a flower petal.

Only for now he meanders away the day before making his crossing on the seam of a stocking, all unfathomable outcome, like the glow of golden arms in the gym, the snatched rhythm of Kid Zamora’s breathing after an hour of speed work. Ah! Those Cubans, hip to the undulations of a Carribean wave, floating to America on palm fronds beneath the glory of the star-studded vault, what balls. I think it was Henry Miller and Gregory Corso, those two best and greatest of friends and human beings who write the best stuff in history what first drew the gaze of the world that way, to focus on the balls of Cubans.

I took an apartment in Memphis, South Perkins, 6 floors up. Distance enough to think good on the descent should Baudelaire, the unformed truth, make me go haring through the windows, sprint the length of the balcony, and for to go throw my form, the great artist body, over and off off off to the waiting crack of the gunshot sidewalk. I came for another reason too, thinking while I light the stove with old baseball cards. I came to make good with Titus my cat flea.

Titus is not a good flea for me. To my mind, I don't know where he came from, did he ride the railroad... did he walk the trail in Tibet... or sit around listening to Gregory Corso argue the role of the infinite and still leave with a hot hippiechick, cos that man is perfect meeting in a jazz moment of bullshit and big love. You know a real writer is not just a writer with dried vomit on their pants, but a writer with dried vomit on their pants who does not even know they are wearing pants.

I need a cat flea more in sympathy with my literary style.

*

Seen on a Get Rich Quick commercial...

"This isn't one of those Get Rich Quick schemes, but guess what, I did!"

Shoes

Hannah criticised my tidying efforts.

"The shoes arranged in lines, what's this, the start of fascism?"

"I suppose shoes arranged in neat rows is one of the precursors of a stab at world domination. However, your own chaotic system of shoe distribution, whereby any shoe can be at any point in the apartment at any time, this also has its drawbacks. One specific drawback being you never quite know when you'll stumble over a flip flop and suffer the disproportionate consequence of plunging through the glass doors or rolling off the balcony and plummeting to the unyielding sidewalk six floors below."

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