Words on You
I watch the cat pass Floss, the doorway between the apartment and outside, looking in through the ajar space to where i sit and carry thoughts along to where they might go, embodying the rest there. And the cat walks by again. They make low mews the way one might when they have something they would like you show someone, but everyone they know is surviving or worse (Busy, et al.) and this low mew gets me up. I don't bother with shoes - i am just stepping out, and the cat keeps leading me, pausing, moving on,pauseing, moving on, until we are at the threshold i have to crawl beneath wire and between cypress spaced a cat's torso apart to continue.
And i arrive on a sidewalk, which the cat crosses shadow into sun before i falling into and rolling around. I find myself gesturing from the sidewalk to the soft grass, which thr cat avoids like there's bugs, and which i avoid because i am in socks. And the cat - let's call them Small - and Small falls down in arms reach and i rub head and scratch belly and reach my arm between Small's paws and sratch the place under the mouth i am always being led to fortunate alignment and the scratching rests there a while before the head relaxes, which relaxes my arm, which a cats arm rests over leaving a part of me in the embrace of a cat for the rest of entropy, and it arrives.
It falls the way arcs fall - little bowl gestures that announce as much as they embody. Moments where the reflection of the arc causes a short of vessel shape to arise between the arc and the understanding. I watch this sort of encounter first in the attention of the cat, which i tend to as i tend to the arm between paws - stillness, listening - and then the cats eyes follow something. And i see what is being fallows - what falls - are these droplet-sized petals, pinkish and plate-like.
I realise this is the first spring where this cat has been not a stray, and not indoors, but indoor-outdoor, with a bell to signal to birds that there might be more here than interfacing has ways of announcing, so the introductions, so the bell. And here, in this magical place where there are birds (where there are connections and arms and wherever winter goes to sleep), there is a cat still enticed by falling petals. To the point that perhaps - just perhaps - the cat brought this mom down the steps, in socks through bush, to watch the petals fall.
...
Inside, se are present when the wall tack releases the eye above the door. The eye is the size of a plate you might put a bowl of soup on, with some cloth between, so the soup can spill a bit on its way to the person. The eye lands pupil side up; this reads as arrival of spring. The tempurature in the walls has changed the silence holding them enough an eye that remains tacked to the wall falls off months later. It remains there, as we sit beside the event, the sound of the disk falling as loud as been seen. I announce it is spring and continue with my resting.
The sound of the cat wanting in arrives, before the cat pushes open the door, and Small is present. There is a tiny three-draw surface the size of a pair of four-gallon crates stacked atop one another. There is the voice of hello. And the voice of treat. And the voice of pets. Before the bowl, and the eating, commencing as we leave the surface-of-two-crates and head for the snack that is there. I find some water and return to my rest, taking this moment to be with the words that notice spring. Nothing finds a way across the moment like a clearing across finds its way across forest.
As this moment wraps through time into how it was here, this rock beckons through a tune as the river moves across it. Before the shadows can take step into a position they will not take a likeness to again for another solar cycle and grow long and be how days are ended, Small is taking to the surface where scratches are conducted - little places the length of words across the coat of the side and back and chin before its noises and the door. Paws that lean down as though through soil, a curve that follows the back through the shoulders, which sit long as the surface is left.Paws find their way to Floss, before there's notice of the eye.
Lately, the cat has been on the arm of the seat by the door, and i or the wind helps the door along, which where open sees the cat through it. Though, with the eye, Small approaches Floss in parallel, as though part of the air that is sucked out as the door gives winder room for passage. There is a moment between cat and eye. The eye's pupil is the length of its size, a long blink of a gorge, vertical and arousal. Small pauses, as though this was never on the floor before. The cat finds a way out the door, stepping gently around the eye. Before i return to rest, i retrieve the eye, and place it on the shelf, so as to see to it as it's time.
...
Do we feel silly yet? Do we feel like all of the art we made fun of along the way has come out? Has said you are fine? Has set their boundaries at Judgement Has No Place, here? Not to spite, simply a matter of course. The way a forest after fire has no voice, only the simple river of flames finding their theshold through the higher dimensions they have always held a part. And, not the judgement will never find its place - only, that place isn't here, not anywhere here is found. And maybe that is what Floss is saying as the eye falls, as becoming stops, and falls, and makes a sound. Maybe that is the depth judgement is at as absence.
The texture of absence is shaped by the loss of the pressures that signal them. There is a simple breath in these throats that navigate their way into lungs, into veins, into heart and brain and fingers touching air, and you being where the words are mouthed, like exhale, like presence, like holding this is where the moment something was is found as there. Like words could never get past how the thoat has just two words to give, maybe three, sometimes four, but usually - there are no words. Just the ways we fell and how we hit. Pulse into ripple ripple into shore and sound a broken shell - spring. Something melts to sun bells.
Beams, rather, should i keep the words and tend to microsanctuaries, as all throats meld, into a wont expression - a path to somewhere dwelled. They'll never be a chorus, a shadow for the eye that takes apart the features, each halftone where was sky. Only where was patterns where there was recognition - Isolation without I - just solice, just the vessal, a simple place for an empty vase and every sound it sees to find across its body and pass into its soul, and there be every passage uttered in the home. As in the river, as in the place in the bed water turbs to pillow around stone.
How resting the head upon that sound, the eyes upon the form, seeing what is frozen without just this much sun, without water with this much more. How taking refuge in the moment, how finding breath that names a word. And if one were to judge that, ir any other word, they'd have to sit with how those throats were thresholds to a world an invitation's to. How every threshold is just the words they're inviting to. Not to say there are not places to pass judgement through - only see it as it was to who it was meant to. Where that is nothing, judge - that space is here for you, as alone as i can get, as distant as i've been, i'd like it known i have yet to even speak with you.